The ice is everywhere;
But the heat of hate is colder still,
Congealing life into frozen fear.
Trees of old look at their roots
And find demonic spades at work;
They worry for their next foliage,
As hot marauders go berserk
With devouring red in their eyes,
And daggers in their pate;
They do not feel the cold at all —
They are keener in blazing hate.
A new world built of icicles
Is busily underway;
Painted in the wrongful blood
Of love and liberty.