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Though the Bitter Wind Blows by Peter von Stackelberg
 

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  • Though tendrils of snow drift around my feet
    and my thighs burn with fatigue at every step,
    through icy particles lash my skin
    and sting as they melt and refreeze,
    though my breath is thrown back in my face
    with each exhalation
    and forms a hoary crust on my eyebrows and hair,
    though Arctic cold cuts through me like a knife
    and sharpens the contours of my pain,
    though the bitter wind blows
    and the sun lies on the horizon,
    the fading light still penetrates the darkness of my soul,
    sustaining the spark that glows in that cold and barren place.
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