At the edge of the forest, winter lived in a hut,
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She salted snowballs in a birch tub,
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She wove yarn, she wove canvases,
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Forged ice bridges over rivers.
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The ceiling is icy, the door is creaky,
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Behind the rough wall, the darkness is prickly,
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As you go beyond the threshold, frost is everywhere,
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And from the windows - blue-blue park.
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The ceiling is icy, the door is creaky,
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Behind the rough wall, the darkness is prickly,
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As you go beyond the threshold, frost is everywhere,
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And from the windows - blue-blue park.
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Went hunting, cut silver,
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I planted a thin month in a crystal bucket,
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She sewed fur coats for trees, toiled a sledge track,
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And then she hurried to the forest to rest in the hut.
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The ceiling is icy, the door is creaky,
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Behind the rough wall, the darkness is prickly,
|
As you go beyond the threshold, frost is everywhere,
|
And from the windows - blue-blue park.
|
The ceiling is icy, the door is creaky,
|
Behind the rough wall, the darkness is prickly,
|
As you go beyond the threshold, frost is everywhere,
|
And from the windows - blue-blue park. |