The Storm, Edvard Munch (1893)
The Storm
Oh the howl of the whirly wicked wind
Tormenting the tree roots at every turn
The cruel objective to tear them out
Like the tree I refuse to yield an inch
To confront face to face the angry storm
For with it comes all evil that was born
Will not let it destroy what I believe
While many others willing to concede
It is glowing white I wear on this night
Not to be a symbol of surrender
But a target for all evil to see
To fight to the death so I may live free