A sharp wind cuts, the air turns stark!
Like turtles in their carapace,
They hide in quilts against the dark,
Each sealed in a private space.
Yet on the peak, in open air,
The snow lies vast, a naked sight—
A blush of warmth, imprisoned there,
A ruby in the fading light.
A climber, frail and nearly gone,
His feet like stone, his hope grown thin,
To the vast white whispered, \"Carry on...
Why must this cold be sealed within?\"
The snow’s old voice, a glacial stream,
Gave answer from its frozen throne:
\"My past was water, and my dream
Is water, when my reign is done.\"