Dwindling in the icy course of the roads that never met
Yet trying her best to remember what he said...
Her feet are sore, her clothes torn... yet she goes on
With the end of this aching night comes a blissful morn
The wrath of the winter lord has made this place so still,
No signs of life, no trace of joy...Just this blistering chill
The only hint of life being she, the lady in pure white
As if an angel of the arctic, as if the winter’s bride...
Just a few miles ahead her suitor plays his flute
Amidst a war-torn scene, in the kingdom of the brute!
Counting his last hours, immersed in sweet memories,
Of the times he spent together with his beloved lady.
Her pretty face flushing pink in love before his eyes...
And no he won’t pinch himself lest it shall make him cry
But tears did glide his weary cheeks and even her pallid face....
Love hast conquered this heartless war, all by the lord’s grace!
