Sparkatale

Some silent grove within a frozen land,
Lies in its ancient splendid summer green,
Once full of laughter and undying song,
Untouched, unloved and far too long unseen.

And that great castle, once so full of light,
Atop the hill beyond the garden walls,
Resounds now only to the mourning cry
Of winter's cruel touch that fills its halls.

The wind is all that moves now in this land,
A frosty plain, so lonely and so stark -
And all around is such a deathly hush,
For all that's left is pain, and vengeful dark. 

O icy winds, withhold your chills,
O spare this breaking heart,
Why do you try to bend him low,
Whom you have torn apart?