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 everywhere,
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And from the windows the park is blue-blue.
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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 everywhere,
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And from the windows the park is blue-blue.
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Went hunting, kept 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.
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As you go beyond the threshold - frost everywhere,
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And from the windows the park is blue-blue.
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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 everywhere,
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And from the windows the park is blue-blue. |