There is more, dear girl, get ready to see:
how much it has snowed, how white the street can be,
how still it all seems, as the frost on the pane
has painted flowers, as if for a festive campaign.
And that same frost, the rascal, whips without care
trees and houses, old fences, and people out there
with noses red and scarves over ears,
and under its cruel lash even the snow appears
to groan, tormented and pressed without reason or sin,
except for being white and fluffy and... divine.
—If it’s so cold, Alina, I’m starting to fear.
What will become of the kittens, though fur they wear?
Won’t they freeze, won’t winter be their end?
Will grandpa and grandma know how to defend,
to keep them safe... until summer comes again?
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