Listen, my love, to the evening breeze. It whispers softly, as
it rises from the world's dead verge where waters turn into
endless plains of ice.
What portents do you hear, my sweet love, about the future death
that the land needs bear, imprisoned under a mantle of miles-deep
ice?
For when all things have died, and in an icy tomb preserved, for
when the dying sun above us dims and becomes a lightless orb of
ash forever circling our lifeless world, what hope have we then
for our cold, dead hearts?
Once, the world knew summer days and dawns which shimmered in its
haze, but now the realm of ice draws near, and with it winter for
eternity. And the ice will lie deep upon all of the land, and
it will lie deep within our two hearts: a grave for our love,
unmourned, unremembered, unmarked by any stone.
So listen, my love, to the evening breeze. For it whispers of the
love that once warmed our limbs, as we had once lain with our
limbs entwined together within summer's dream. For, if we
remember, and we turn once more with gentle touch, we may yet
feel our love burst forth a final time, and blossom as a
ensanguined rose. May we then fend, for one brief, final moment,
an endless winter waste from our hearts, or have they already
become as the ice which slowly suffocates our dying world?