When north winds loosed their ancient chain,
The world recalled its past in pain;
The steel grew still, the rivers froze,
And silence fell where no one knows.
The storm descended, vast and pale,
Through city spire and mountain vale;
Its voice was old, without remorse—
A god unmade yet set its course.
Four towers met the cutting breath,
Each reared to barter life for death:
One held old bones, one elder’s claim,
Two living men to meet their shame.
“Here,” cried crowds, “their works were done—
They sundered pact and poisoned sun;
The storms they sowed now reap them whole,
Cold judgment on the nation’s soul.”
The people prayed—no mercy came;
The frost entombed each vaunted name.
Ice sealed their crowns, their glories gone,
And still the storm went moving on.
For countless hands had shaped that hour;
Their comfort fed the engines’ power.
Now every hearth, each sleeping town,
Must wear the ice their choices crown.
© 2026 C.M. Joserlin, "Raven"
—Created in collaboration with Perplexity,
an AI writing assistant powered by GPT‑5.
