L'Avalanche

With the furious rage of a thousand Winters, A sea of injustice, waiting at the spout. Like the irritated bite of a good man's splinters, That swindle and split when sweetly plucked out. The frost-fangs froth into an empty grave, And leave all, cowering below, to their bitter end. Sovereign cragsmen, smothered as slaves, Like a crumbling ship, so desperate to scend. The mighty Alps, now a fresh garden of bones, As its prey lie tangled in the ghastly web. Listen to the innocent and their soft, muted moans, And slowly keep climbing from your cruel misstep.