© 2009 Hachiko Yukimora
Winds howling past wretched windmill
my eyes twither to and fro
back and forth so we will
Rolling hills cover in white
adorned with spectre-gray delights
This winteresque is thine
With every one entwined
The green is gone dearest me
All of which now is free
Shiver with this timber
Fingers frozen by the dozen
Two times this twelve
Amidst this cold dark shell
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