The glimmering gossamer snows have gone,
Only determined dirtied piles remain alone.
They cannot stay forever upon the sleeping green,
For who is snow to say that summer can't be seen?
The warmth I have longed for struggles on,
My cries of frustrations can't help him come upon.
I know the warmth will come again to my land,
He comes every year as sure as a wave upon the sand,
But what faith can I have in the face of cold winds?
Perhaps, this is the winter of our sins.
The cold stretches on and claims my joy.