Beyond the Arctic Circle, where the northern heavens glow,
The wind sings ancient verses through the ice and driving snow.
A land of breathless silence, where the stars like sentries stand,
And time is carved in glaciers by a slow, unyielding hand.
The winter bites with fury, and the dark will never fade,
Yet in the frozen stillness, human hearts refuse to break.
For though the cold may claim the earth, and silence steal the sound,
A fire burns beneath the frost — a soul that will not drown.
We walk where few would wander, on the edge of night and day,
Where hope is forged in hardship, and the price of life is paid.
With hands worn thin by labour, we raise dreams from frozen ground,
And in the endless twilight, a quiet strength is found.
No gilded halls, no easy paths — just tundra, steel, and sky,
Yet in this barren beauty, our true selves learn to fly.
For freedom isn’t given where the comforts softly call —
It’s born in blizzards, born in ice, and stands through one and all.
We are not many, but we’re bound — by choice, by blood, by trust,
A family of the frostline, shaped by frost and dust.
We speak in few words, but we mean every one,
And guard the light we carry till the northern day is won.
The world may call it madness — to live where warmth is rare,
But here, the soul finds clarity, and burdens turn to prayer.
For every scar, a story; for every loss, a flame —
We are not tamed by winter. We were born inside its name.
So let the storms keep raging, let the ice keep stretching wide —
We do not seek permission to remain here, to abide.
Our footsteps mark the whiteness, not with conquest, not with pride,
But with quiet, steady courage — and the will to stand, undenied.
And if the world forgets us, if no song should e’er be sung,
We’ll still be here at morning, when the pale sun stirs, half-drowned.
For this is not a prison — it’s a promise we have kept,
A vow whispered in blizzards: “We will not be swept.”
And that’s my thing.
And that’s my thing.
