Snow fell soft as sorrow’s breath,
upon the lake where silence slept.
No sun, no sound, no beating drum,
just cold, and wind, and death that’s come.
Odell thee Tasmanian devil, with rifle worn,
traced his steps through tundra torn.
A hunter’s path, a trapper’s need—
led him to a tale indeed.
He reached the homes where life had sung,
where children laughed and seal meat hung.
But fires burned to ashen bone,
and every soul had turned to stone.
No tracks around, no single cry,
just frozen dogs with glassy eyes.
The soup still simmered in the pot,
as if they left… or had forgot.
Furs hung waiting, boots aligned,
as if they’d left in perfect time.
Yet not a footprint, not a word,
just echoes no one ever heard.
He found the graves—each mound undone,
as though the dead had tried to run.
Their resting place, now hollowed deep,
their bones had fled, or gone to sleep.
The wind then spoke in ancient tongues,
of spirits lost and blackened lungs.
It sang of stars that bend and spin,
of doors that open deep within.
A village gone, no blood, no fight,
just vanished in the Arctic night.
Some say they rose, were taken high,
by ships that hum across the sky.
Others whisper, still afraid,
that something darker made the trade—
a curse, a deal, an ancient sin,
that stole the breath from Anjikuni.
So when you walk where cold winds creep,
and snow buries secrets deep,
remember this: some vanishings
are swallowed whole by whispering wings.
Engineer's Log 