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Through the whistle of chilly winds
I hear whispers luring me to play on snow.

Shall I go? Or shall I stay?
I just don’t know.

I might frost my ears or my nose.
Thank you, but I choose to stay where it is warm.

But winds came stronger and blew on me,
“Come on! Come out and play with snow while it’s not gone.”

I sit on my needles, debating the request.
Then again winter won’t last forever, and I walk out in a storm.

1Singanutre

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