Antarctica (Tha Mi Fuar Agus Sgìth)

It's quiet at night; alone but for the aching of the frames
The echoes of our prayers
I fumble the words; faded postcards to the voices in my head
Leave no forwarding address

Playing god in my dreams
Drowning in a circumstance all of my own design
Forgiving eyes and all the words I need to hear but don't deserve
Unseen horizons out of reach

It's habitual to believe in
This sinking life of little note
A tradition of loss

There are no saints this far south
Borne on ships of Norwegian oak
Built to endure rather than break
Under the relentless pressure of ice
Swallowed by the frozen sea
Indistinguishable endless white
No reflections or memory
Of this desolate wasted past

I saw a light; in that emptiness so beautiful

Smoke flies, like crows from my twisted wreck; liberated to the sky
The spines of mountains breaking; no moon, no ground, no sky to
Hold us; too cold for anyone but You