The Exile’s Canvas: A Ballad of Frost and Farewell
Beneath the moon’s pale, ever-watchful eye,
Where jagged peaks embrace the starless veil,
A solitary figure treads the sigh
Of winds that whisper secrets turned to gale.
His cloak, a tattered banner, flaps and strains
Against the teeth of winter’s cruel refrain,
While memories, like ghosts, in tempests reign,
And paint his soul with hues of ancient pains.
“O mount of frost,” he cries, “thy breast of stone,
Shall bear the weight of visions yet unsung!
In thy white silence, make my heart thine own,
And thaw the ice where once warm passion sprung.”
The painter’s plea, a fragile thread of sound,
Is swallowed by the void, profound, unbound.
Three winters past, beneath a gentler sky,
When spring had brushed the world with hues of grace,
He knelt before a face he deified—
A maiden’s smile, time could not erase.
“I’ll carve our love in stars,” he vowed, breath-torn,
“And crown thy brow with dawn’s immortal light.
But grant me seasons three to chase the morn,
To find the art that chains the infinite.”
Her voice, a tremulous and tender stream:
“Go, trace the paths where fallen angels weep,
But when the third year’s frost shall slit the seam
Of autumn’s gown, return—or lose thy keep.”
Her fingers, frail as petals, brushed his cheek,
A covenant inscribed in whispers weak.
Through verdant vales and deserts scorched by noon,
He sought the muse that fled his anguished grasp.
His brush, a wand to conjure night from noon,
Yet every stroke dissolved to spectral gasps.
But in the mountain’s labyrinth of snow,
Where sunlight dares not linger long nor loud,
He deemed the shadows held the secret glow
To sculpt the phantoms veiled in winter’s shroud.
His easel rose where eagles fear to perch,
A crucifix against the ashen morn.
He mixed his paints with tears, a futile church
Where faith and desperation, both, were born.
“O spectral forms that dance in glacial air,
Lend me your eyes, your breath, your frozen fire!
That I may trap your essence, stark and fair,
And kindle in my veins your wild desire.”
The canvas glared, a void no stroke could fill,
As days to weeks, and weeks to months, decayed.
The sun, a timid coin, crept low and still,
While in his chest, a festered doubt did raid.
“Where art thou, Muse? Is this thine altar vain?
Are all my dreams but ashes in thy shrine?”
The mountain groaned, its ancient bones in pain,
And hurled his voice back, thinned to a whine.
One twilight, as the storm’s black wings unfurled,
A shape emerged from veils of slanting snow—
Not muse nor ghost, but memory of a world
Where warmth and whispered pledges used to flow.
“Belov’d!” he gasped, though reason bade him fear,
“Hast thou traversed the wilds to find me here?”
Her form, ethereal as a half-recalled dream,
Drifted, a wisp of smoke, a shadow’s trace.
Her eyes, two pools where sorrow’s eddies stream,
Bore through his soul, yet left no physical trace.
“The third year’s frost has gnawed the final leaf,
Yet here thou lingerest, lost in barren strife.
Thy promise, like my heart, is rent beneath
The avalanche that devours mortal life.”
“Nay, chide me not!” he wept, his hands outstretched,
“This mount shall yield the masterpiece I owe!
One dawn more—see, the storm is nearly etched
To silence! Stay, and watch thy portrait grow—”
Her laughter, bitter as a frozen spring,
Unraveled threads of hope he strove to cling.
“Farewell, thou architect of empty vows,
Who chose the phantom o’er the living breath.
My spirit fades where no repentance plows
The ice that seals the epitaph of death.”
She melted, then, into the howling night,
A snowflake drowned in winter’s blinding white.
Madness, his bride, embraced him with cold arms,
As frenzied strokes now scarred the lifeless page.
He clawed at shades, at echoes, false charms,
While blizzards roared their mockery and rage.
“Behold!” he screamed, “The face of love divine!”
Yet all his art revealed was twisted line.
At last, when spring’s first blush dared pierce the gray,
A shepherd found the frozen, hollowed shell.
The canvas, clutched in fingers stiff as clay,
Portrayed a face no mortal could compel—
A smile, half-joy, half-sorrow’s sharpest thorn,
Eyes brimmed with truths no living soul could bear.
The mountain, ever silent, watched in scorn,
As winds erased the tracks of his despair.
Now, travelers who brave the lonely height
Speak of a ghost who mingles with the gales,
Repeating vows to shadows of the night,
And painting dreams on snow that ever fails.
For exiles’ hearts, though fierce, are brittle things—
They shatter ’neath the weight of phantom wings.
Where jagged peaks embrace the starless veil,
A solitary figure treads the sigh
Of winds that whisper secrets turned to gale.
His cloak, a tattered banner, flaps and strains
Against the teeth of winter’s cruel refrain,
While memories, like ghosts, in tempests reign,
And paint his soul with hues of ancient pains.
“O mount of frost,” he cries, “thy breast of stone,
Shall bear the weight of visions yet unsung!
In thy white silence, make my heart thine own,
And thaw the ice where once warm passion sprung.”
The painter’s plea, a fragile thread of sound,
Is swallowed by the void, profound, unbound.
Three winters past, beneath a gentler sky,
When spring had brushed the world with hues of grace,
He knelt before a face he deified—
A maiden’s smile, time could not erase.
“I’ll carve our love in stars,” he vowed, breath-torn,
“And crown thy brow with dawn’s immortal light.
But grant me seasons three to chase the morn,
To find the art that chains the infinite.”
Her voice, a tremulous and tender stream:
“Go, trace the paths where fallen angels weep,
But when the third year’s frost shall slit the seam
Of autumn’s gown, return—or lose thy keep.”
Her fingers, frail as petals, brushed his cheek,
A covenant inscribed in whispers weak.
Through verdant vales and deserts scorched by noon,
He sought the muse that fled his anguished grasp.
His brush, a wand to conjure night from noon,
Yet every stroke dissolved to spectral gasps.
But in the mountain’s labyrinth of snow,
Where sunlight dares not linger long nor loud,
He deemed the shadows held the secret glow
To sculpt the phantoms veiled in winter’s shroud.
His easel rose where eagles fear to perch,
A crucifix against the ashen morn.
He mixed his paints with tears, a futile church
Where faith and desperation, both, were born.
“O spectral forms that dance in glacial air,
Lend me your eyes, your breath, your frozen fire!
That I may trap your essence, stark and fair,
And kindle in my veins your wild desire.”
The canvas glared, a void no stroke could fill,
As days to weeks, and weeks to months, decayed.
The sun, a timid coin, crept low and still,
While in his chest, a festered doubt did raid.
“Where art thou, Muse? Is this thine altar vain?
Are all my dreams but ashes in thy shrine?”
The mountain groaned, its ancient bones in pain,
And hurled his voice back, thinned to a whine.
One twilight, as the storm’s black wings unfurled,
A shape emerged from veils of slanting snow—
Not muse nor ghost, but memory of a world
Where warmth and whispered pledges used to flow.
“Belov’d!” he gasped, though reason bade him fear,
“Hast thou traversed the wilds to find me here?”
Her form, ethereal as a half-recalled dream,
Drifted, a wisp of smoke, a shadow’s trace.
Her eyes, two pools where sorrow’s eddies stream,
Bore through his soul, yet left no physical trace.
“The third year’s frost has gnawed the final leaf,
Yet here thou lingerest, lost in barren strife.
Thy promise, like my heart, is rent beneath
The avalanche that devours mortal life.”
“Nay, chide me not!” he wept, his hands outstretched,
“This mount shall yield the masterpiece I owe!
One dawn more—see, the storm is nearly etched
To silence! Stay, and watch thy portrait grow—”
Her laughter, bitter as a frozen spring,
Unraveled threads of hope he strove to cling.
“Farewell, thou architect of empty vows,
Who chose the phantom o’er the living breath.
My spirit fades where no repentance plows
The ice that seals the epitaph of death.”
She melted, then, into the howling night,
A snowflake drowned in winter’s blinding white.
Madness, his bride, embraced him with cold arms,
As frenzied strokes now scarred the lifeless page.
He clawed at shades, at echoes, false charms,
While blizzards roared their mockery and rage.
“Behold!” he screamed, “The face of love divine!”
Yet all his art revealed was twisted line.
At last, when spring’s first blush dared pierce the gray,
A shepherd found the frozen, hollowed shell.
The canvas, clutched in fingers stiff as clay,
Portrayed a face no mortal could compel—
A smile, half-joy, half-sorrow’s sharpest thorn,
Eyes brimmed with truths no living soul could bear.
The mountain, ever silent, watched in scorn,
As winds erased the tracks of his despair.
Now, travelers who brave the lonely height
Speak of a ghost who mingles with the gales,
Repeating vows to shadows of the night,
And painting dreams on snow that ever fails.
For exiles’ hearts, though fierce, are brittle things—
They shatter ’neath the weight of phantom wings.
“`
