The iced winds rack the air, pricking Our exposed faces The frosted surface Whimpers wearily under our glazed boots The sky as white as paste, the journey Losing meaning with each step Yet still we trudge, and trudge, and trudge Through this frozen wasteland I root in doubt I look at the peers around me: Some have determined bodies With faces of pained confusion Many plough on striving For the peddled gold Significant sums sink in disbelief But those with ears to hear, hear sharply The distant, curt cries of man and woman As if they’re being picked off by streaks Of bullets fired by turrets, They carry the colour of futile labour.
An Expedition
An Expedition
An Expedition
The iced winds rack the air, pricking Our exposed faces The frosted surface Whimpers wearily under our glazed boots The sky as white as paste, the journey Losing meaning with each step Yet still we trudge, and trudge, and trudge Through this frozen wasteland I root in doubt I look at the peers around me: Some have determined bodies With faces of pained confusion Many plough on striving For the peddled gold Significant sums sink in disbelief But those with ears to hear, hear sharply The distant, curt cries of man and woman As if they’re being picked off by streaks Of bullets fired by turrets, They carry the colour of futile labour.