six humans trapped by happenstance
In bleak and bitter cold
Eaxh one possessed of a stick of wood
or so the story's told

Their dying fire in need of logs
The first man held his back
For of the faces around the fire
He noticed one was black

The next man looking across the way
Saw not one of his church
And couldn't bring himself to give
The fire his stick of birch

The third one sat in tattered clothes
He gave his coat a hitch
Why should his log be put to use
To warm the idle rich?

The rich man just sat back and thought
Of the wealth he had in store
And how to keep what he had earned
From the lazy, shiftless poor

The black man's face bespoke revenge
As the fire passed from his sight
For all he saw in his stick of wood
Was a chance to spite the white

The last man of this forlorn group
Did naught except for gain
Giveing only to those who gave
Was how he played the game

Their logs held tight in death's still hands
Was proof of human sin
They didn't die from the cold without
But from the cold within.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Ero, in the year 226 AF.