On the twilight of a half-snowed hill,
Long lines of mountain and trees
Pencil scratched on wide skies.
White sun sets sighing, resting from herself.
"How nice to be cold," says the sun,
"How good this cold air feels against my face."
On the twilight of a half-snowed hill,
Long lines of mountain and trees
Pencil scratched on wide skies.
White sun sets sighing, resting from herself.
"How nice to be cold," says the sun,
"How good this cold air feels against my face."