We are borne from the tepid tropical soup.

Shocked by the cool air as it struck us in the face. 


We cried out as in disgrace.

What put us in this cold, cold place?


Out into the cold, cruel world.

Girded only by our skin, and the fiery race. 


Of new blood in our veins, what remains,

Of our conquest of the cold, the ice ages of old.


When this land, covered in snow and ice,

Killed without passion, killed without vice.


If we had not had that fire within,

We wouldn't have had the will to win.


It braces us still, as we go forth.

To conquer places beyond this earth.


But, as we grow old, our skin does fold,

Wrinkle to the icy blast, a hot blood fast.


The reminder of our past, that winter brings.

Runs shivers down our spine as the wind sings.


Its mournful wail, and we begin to fail.

As time unwinds its mortal tale.


And we can no longer stave off the dread.

So we succumb to the cold, dark dead.


A fire burned out.


Copyright 2000 © Ronald W. Hull




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