Where is my soul; it lies in snow...
When will it die; I do not know...
Why all this coldness, why the chill?
Who are you, night? So dark, unreal?
What are these flames, so silver-white?
Winter might tell, but I will write.
What it will be? Forms so ethereal.
Where it will lead? Ask time - the spiral.
When it will end? Fragtals would know.
Who is the "I", that will not grow.
Why - being the final question.
Winter, the season - my detention.