Where sky grows thin and stars bend low,
The northern winds begin to glow.
The ice does not just bite—it sings,
And carves its hymns in mountain rings.
There, heaven touches earth with frost,
And time forgets what it has lost.
The sun is shy, the moon is bold,
And silence speaks in tongues of old.
A traveler once climbed past the light,
And found a gate of crystal night.
He knocked but once, then turned to flame—
And vanished with no name to claim.