Heavily drenched trees cry out in pain as the frigid air courses through its already dying veins.
Laying face first on the rimed ground,
their cries are never heard;
covered up by the chilled air,
the screams never make their way to the ears.
Towards the snow soaked grass,
the frost dwindles with angelic ease.
White puffs of pure delicate flakes engulf the landscape,
covering everything with its Iceland essence.
No grass remains;
it has been replaced by a sea of untouched white powder.
The cracked sound of frightened birds fills the sky.
Now that nothing responds a dead still silence seizes their throats like a murderous hand trying to silence his victim;
sound is dead.
Empty dry air plugs the once harmonic tunes of life and sun.
The stench of lifeless trees produces a perfect aroma of death.
The fissured shed is being forgotten;
covered up by blankets of fair snow.
Across this arctic wasteland,
a boisterous gale blows the snow creating a fierce cyclone of winter.
Algid devours this land; finds every heat source and consumes it, leaving nothing warm.