I dreamt that I would die in the snow
Frozen like the earth twenty thousand Years ago
I died when it was forty below
I died inside a billow on the edge of the road
I feel the ice in my glands
Permafrost in the palm of my hands
Chew the spruce at the strands
Crowchild of a baron wasteland
Suck the sludge off the ledge
Melts with my sweat as I'm oxidizing
I'm laying right on the edge
Counting burrs and I'm climatizing
Western winters of old
Sweet death of organic existence
These western winters are cold
Western winters have no resistance
Cold, cold, cold
Crowchild of a baron wasteland