In the realm of frozen whispers, ice begins its tale,
Crystals dance in moonlit silence, on a path so pale.
Beneath the northern lights, a tapestry of white,
Each flake tells a story, in the stillness of the night.

The echoes of the distant past, trapped in every shard,
Memories of ancient worlds, in icy depths are scarred.
A symphony of solitude, where time itself stands still,
In the heart of winter’s breath, a gentle, chilling thrill.

Reflections of a mirrored sky, in every frozen stream,
A silent hymn of winter, like a distant dream.
The beauty of the ice, a fragile, fleeting grace,
Captures moments of eternity, in its cold embrace.

Yet as the sun begins to rise, the ice begins to weep,
A tender farewell to the night, as it softly falls asleep.
But even as it melts away, the whispers still remain,
In the echoes of the earth, where ice and dreams sustain.