Descend in a bed of white pale as snow,

A gleaming path sprinting far and low,

A borough buried bleakly as day turns to night.

When the winds run frigid, comes Winter’s reign of might.

Debris peeking out, buildings caving in,

An odd man’s trails and bones - Death is akin.

A land of deathly heaven, now desolate,

Where travelers discover their horrid fate too late.

An uncharted beauty - a mirage - a vision of Van Gogh ...

Descend into the wintry world as hushed as snow.