Someday the dead will return from the shadows,
like the Bryophytes in Canada, sprouting after 400 years of death,
darkness will flood the artillery of every breathing soul,
melting like night from the roof tops,
dripping like paint from the walls of our existence.
The white walkers will rise from the bottom of the fathomless sea,
drenching sea ice, crystallizing the globe.
A division bell will echo in the distance,
against the shrills of a wailing snow
rising like waves
lashing the face of earth.
All that will be left is to run,
soaking in the last remnants of light
that escapes from the weight of clouds
and run.
Run till there is blood in our veins,
strength in our limbs
and hope in our eyes.
Run for the mountains,
the guardian of our survival.
soaring against the laden sky,
we will run,
climbing till the last tree
the last branch,
the last leaf,
the last inch of earth
fall.