I hear their warnings, sharp and shrill
as southbound geese fly overhead,
"It's time to flee from winter's chill."

I feel an overwhelming dread
I won't, like them, escape the cold
as southbound geese fly overhead.

A vise-like frost has taken hold
from which I cannot break the grip --
I won't, like them, escape the cold.

As winter cracks its cruel whip,
I'm held in place by frozen hands
from which I cannot break the grip.

Birds flee to warm, embracing lands,
but that is not my destiny.
I'm held in place by frozen hands.

As southbound geese fly over me,
I hear their warnings, sharp and shrill,
but it is not my destiny
to share their flight from winter's chill.