My Land

Around my head a cold wind blows,
Branches creak and groan upon the pine.
Birds cling to their nests,
For exposure beckons death
At Winter’s bony hands.
This is the land in which I drew first breath –
A cold and unforgiving place, but mine;
And should my self be lost to time,
No memory of my battles, lost or won,
No record of the thoughts once in my mind,
The land lives on.

-Victor Van Brandt