The town is fixed in icy gloom,
And grim the sallow faces,
Bent against the bitter wind,
Like penitential cases,
While in the church, with reaching spire,
A priest prostrates in supplication,
Imploring gods to save us all,
As if we’re their earthly nation,
And there, on frozen river bank,
Tracks of footprints in the snow,
Where once a sad-eyed woman walked,
And last talked there to the Crow,
For in the shops and in the homes,
The air is thick with desperation,
Nothing is as once it was,
There’s nothing left but resignation,
And for the rest, we lead our lives,
In search of meaning, love, for reason,
But life just is, it comes and goes,
No more-there is no other season.