The ominous wind blew to deliver news
of the plain growing barren, and you were still capable of hunting.
Gripping with your lips and your body, you've captivated him.
So now, with him, your love and your passion brews.
I seek cover in this windy field still seeking, still running, still coveting.

Two bodies huddle together, creating the most passionate heat,
as I the lone trekker, had nothing more than myself and a parka.
Knowing nothing about sewing or stitches, leaving garments incomplete,
Shivering without an amorous shelter, I shun the ways of Petrarca.

Patches and tape, are all desperate attempts to not feel the cold.
These hiemal gusts try to captivate me,
and without your warmth, instills the frigidness of the tundra.
The winds blow hard and garments begin to unfold.
I've become the winter's barren tree.

I do take pleasure in knowing your heart has been broken,
shattered and trampled as you did to mine.
This vicious malice fuels the hunt in white plains,
Where I prowl to find the token,
to an everlasting passion divine.

And as the plains grows wild again, refreshed with the greens of spring, no longer blanche,
predatory tendencies shall continue.
There will be passion in these eyes, and a heat ignited in this body,
precluding the loss of another opportunity, and extension of an olive branch,
for this time, this solitude will discontinue.