The Ballad Of The Frozen Field

This is the true end of desire,
The closed ground deflecting sleet:
All seasons tend to this season
And the world is flat.

This is the true end of exploration
Over the low and the high seas;
Whoever fares may try lightly
All edges but these.

This is the true end of language
That Way of ways:
All sound shaped to the one sound
Ice echoing ice.