The wind whispers secrets as old as the ocean, in a language even the breeze has forgotten.
The words sinuously slither through the branches of trees that scrape across the sky, trying to puncture holes in the ice crystals. Pouring ice cold memories down our backs.
And skips across the waves and ripples of water, frozen in time, like a ghost that merrily glides along the ice... lost in the forgotten tune they hum.
It's foreign tongue licks the back of our necks, like wounds, speaking to our bones as they rattle in the awesome chill of comforting pain.
Though we never admit to feeling it.
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