From both below the ice, and atop it - I toil between,
To pierce a hole through the top, or punch one below?
Surely - to emerge and not lose hope,
And then - for the business of passing on through.
The ice above me, gives way, and shatters!
I am soaked in sweat, like a fieldhand on a plow.
Iíll come back to you like the ships in those songs,
I remember them all, even my past poetry.
I am short, half a century - forty years plus more,
Iím still alive because of you, and with The Lordís intervention.
Iíve got something to sing, when brought before The Almighty,
Iíve got things to account for before Him.