Birch forest cries
the arms of the winter is
while traveling to all natural.
Wild squirrels scuttle out there,
and here gather winter stocks.
The human body to burn
freezing wind raw clinch.
Common are we travel,
Common morning of October
Towards the end of the scythe woman
some underworld hut
ride. The white frost
The color was painted by the morning
in the twilight. This morning
strange head writer.
Unfortunately, nailing the soul
the joy stick to one of melancholy
Calvary's cross-tree to catch,
I do not find a way to catch up now