• Under the winter moon's pale light,
    across the cold and starry night,
    from snowy mountains soaring high
    to ocean shores echoes the cry.
    From barren sands to verdant fields,
    from city street to lonely wealds,
    cries the tortured human heart,
    seeking solace, wisdom, a chart
    by which to understand its plight
    under the winter moon's pale light.
    Dawn is unable to fade the night.
    Must we live ever in the blight
    under the winter moon's cold light,
    lost in loneliness, hate, and fright,
    last night, tonight, tomorrow night
    under the winter moon's bleak light?







    We can embrace love; it's not too late.
    Why do we sleep, instead, with hate?
    Belief requires no suspension
    to see that Hell is our invention.
    We make Hell real; we stoke its fires.
    And in its flames our hope expires.
    Heaven, too, is merely our creation.
    We can grant ourselves out own salvation.
    All that's required is imagination.