That year’s cold was strange Our thoughts were frozen Our eyes white washed…We started fearing our own cold questions Some elders felt necessaryThat more of us must burn as wood-stockUntil the cold is goneAnd dissenting voices were silenced We kept burning our own kindIt reached a point when ‘Our words grasped each other for warmthAnd suddenly started to rhyme…’This year we feel the same coldPeople are burning as wood stockAnd words are dreaming to rhyme again together…November 2023On wars happening around us.