The silver sky, the frosty ground,
the bundled peasant homeward bound,
with misted breath the people yearn,
until the golden sun's return.

The silver sky, the falling snow,
an icy age 'til flowers grow,
with frozen skin does dark earth yearn,
until the golden sun's return.

The silver sky, the bitter chill,
in winter's grasp, the land held still
and deep in dream does Sapience yearn,
until the golden sun's return.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Glacian, in the year 642 AF.