All the years, decades, centuries, eons, and so forth
Every thing clings to warmth among blizzards and frost
Why then those birds so stubbornly fly to the North?
Birds are normally always supposed to fly to the South
They don't look for the fame
Or acknowledgement
Once the desert of ice spread below will break
And they know, that day they will see in astonishment
The reward for the pain, risk, and dare they take
So, it wasn't our fate to live quiet and drowsy as everyone there
Something kicked us out on this path through the surf and the frost
We haven't seen the Auroras, not yet, and it's rare
It's so rare, in fact, and it also comes with a cost
Now it's quiet, and seagulls drop down like lightnings
And we feed them with pieces of nothing from our hands
And we know as a reward for the silence
We will hear the sound, somewhere, in the end
How long in our dreams we see nothing but white?
Other colors dissolved and died in endless snowstorms
This white radiance eventually rendered us blind
We just hope we will be able to see when it's warm
Our throats will be free from the chokehold of scare
Our weakness will crumble and fall off like clay
And as a reward, to make up for nights of despair
Here will come bright and infinite, Arctic Day
North, freedom and hope, without limits and doubts
Snow, sparkling and clear, like a life without lies
Crows will not come down to peck out our eyes
It just isn't a place where the crows can survive
Those who went, and didn't believe in bad omens,
Through the ice without a minute to stay
And diluting the ages of loneliness
You'll see someone along the way
