What am I doing here in this cold country,
surrounded by these distant people constantly complaining
about immigrants and high taxes?
Why am I wasting my life in this open prison without guards,
looking for love which does not exist?
Why am I still alive fighting the battle already lost,
hurting myself again and again?
My mind wrestles with a myriad of questions,
but who can give me answers?
The frozen snow crunching under my boots, the path shrouded in mist,
or a large crow shrieking above me and disappearing in the grey horizon?
From the point of view of grammar, it's fine.
Things normally disappear over the horizon, but I think in works in your poem.
I have not commented on the quality of your writing as a poet. This does not imply anything negative. It's simply that I know something about grammar; I know almost nothing about poetry.