The mist it rolls North, East & West
The South lay bare and empty.
What be hidden in the wood it's told
Will let trapped souls fly free.
The Wind it blows cold and pure,
Like the freshest snow and ice.
Yet it hurts like ember coals,
It burns thy hands and face.
Pure of heart they call me.
Clever mind they say.
If that be true,
Believe me you,
I'd have it yet today.
Share This Poem