A Siberian winter greets us all;
Hushed is the protest as darkness is dinned,
A time to awake, and a time to fall.
The nights grow long as it creeps into day,
Redder and blacker than they ever were;
Heroes are born to battle evil’s sway,
Though broken, in fighting they do not err.
Summer is the crib in which my son dreams,
Where neither storm nor winter can intrude;
Strong is the Charm, for love’s shield is supreme,
Devoid of dark arts, just goodness imbued.
Innocence is bliss when knowledge malign,
Dream on, my son, while innocence is kind.