Come the Cold, The Sacred Storm (Prometheus’ Work Undone) -3/22/05

The softest dreams of Heaven fall as snow
Upon our desert world, on which they melt
And scarcely leave a trace that they were there.

And thus, our only chance to see them so
Is briefly, while they travel through the air
As blindly upwards, parched we dare to grope.

We cannot follow them to whence they go
But in their very coming find we hope
A hope that someday our two worlds collide.

That someday all these sacred flurries grow,
A blizzard by our faces finally felt
And through its white, this waste be purified!
So come the cold, and soothe each fiery welt,
As all this heated life begins to slow.