The wind, a restless spirit, howls,
Through skeletal trees, its icy bowls.
It whispers tales of frozen streams,
And blankets fields in silver gleams.
The snow, a silent artist, falls,
On rooftops, streets, and garden walls.
It paints the world in purest white,
A hush descends, and all is light.
The sun, a weary traveller, sleeps,
While frost upon the window weeps.
But hope remains, in hearts so warm,
For spring's return, to weather the storm.
Old Winter, with his beard of white,
Has come again, to hold the night.
He wraps the world in icy chains,
And chills the blood that runs in veins.
His fingers trace the frosted pane,
A silent plea for warmth to gain.
He whispers secrets, soft and low,
Of frozen lakes and fields of snow.
He holds the world in icy thrall,
Yet beauty reigns, beyond it all.
For even in his bitter reign,
A quiet peace, in every vein.
The Winter King, with crown of snow,
His icy breath, a frosted flow.
He walks the earth, with silent stride,
And paints the land in shades of white.
He rules the world with gentle hand,
A hush descends upon the land.
The trees bow down, in silent grace,
And snowflakes fall, with gentle pace.
He whispers tales of ancient lore,
Of frozen dreams and icy core.
The Winter King, with frozen might,
Brings beauty forth, in darkest night.