The fabled seasons, a mythical thing,
Range from a spectrum of life and death.
And yet now it seems the birds will never sing,
A life no longer joyous with zest.
For the ice and snow have claimed this once arable land,
A blanket of white, pristine but devoid of life.
Such is the world we are now so proud to call our own,
A frozen Artic with no hope.

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