Endless snowy bluffs in every direction sweep,
and the sun has barely risen before it starts to set,
bypassing its zenith entirely.
Winds stir the snow-swept steppes
and sing their lonesome melody.
The darkening sky plunges the snow
into deep shades of indigo,
and the sun simply a band of gold
Yet the darkness is not devoid of beauty.
Why is it that the longest nights
contain angelic dancing lights?
Why is it that a land of such great and endless snow
contains the warmth of summer springs
hidden just below?
Why is it that the coldest climate
breeds the warmest hearts?
Such a small island
with such enormous dualities;
small wonder that it has enchanted
such enormous quantities of sightseers.
The cold and dark may sting,
but underneath the permafrost
there hides an ever-present spring.
It sings forth in the froth of the geysers,
the light of Aurora,
and the soul of the Icelander.
What is it about this cold, dark land
that makes it so undeniably grand?
It would seem
that adversity produces spirit.