Polar winds scarcely hit the polar bear.
This is no time for hibernation.
In the palest of the winter
the abode still melts.
Clinging to life
on a shrinking island
no longer does its hairy frame
disappear against the white ice
but rather contrasts the aqua waters.
Can they see him now?
Those idiots in suits and ties
who play God.
They pay no care
for in the growing warmth
they lavish, play golf.
For the Northern being,
it is a sentence to death.