Trapped in the snow, a World War raging
Faint taunt of music, a modern club mix
He searched for himself, for identification
And froze without love, a broken crucifix
He began fair and strong, an industrial lord
Clutching company stock in his infant fist
He might have held safe in the tower of his work
But for lakeside seduction, the gathering mist
Invading the corners of his dark estate
A woman’s hand sudden, like ice to his heart
Chilled him so deeply, her blows of sharp stone
Bloodied his head, tore his reason apart
Clear vision clouded, the lake filled with mud
Stirred by the stones she cast over his dreams
He was shivering, stripped for his exile and loss
Consumed by the engine of his own machine
Now the ages of ice are loosening their hold
On the blindness of lust and its procreation
Tenderness is withheld, you must be either/or
Love may not speak its name in this generation
It must keep to its place in the castles of men
Except those explicitly licenced to know
How love is admitted, approved and set free
To wander the night for his grave in the snow.
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