He stood there shivering,
ice-encrusted,
high atop the winter steps of Naraka,
draped in a cloak of sorrow and regret,
teeth chattering like crickets,
trapped within a wicker box.
Deeds were remembered in sad horror,
and replayed,
and now repaid in the terror of the cold.

He stood there shaking,
ice cycles ringing on his frame,
naked now upon the frigid stone.
The wind,
like daggers cut his flesh,
the wind,
like Oden's breath,
froze his bones,
all for the evil he had done,
all by the choices made by him alone.

He stood there quaking.
His flesh to deepest azure froze,
where painful cracks began to grow,
like trees that hold a fertile bough.
Now oozing through those cyan cracks,
is crimson blood in vivid hues,
spread upon his screaming back,
like petals of the lotus.
These crimson blossoms on his skin,
are punishment for hate and sin,
in a life that only he could win,
now being paid forever,
in the foggy freezing night,
in eerie orange ancient light,
alone and frozen to our sight,
forgotten now forever.