no, no, no – sea cucumber is not a delicacy I will ever be after
with soup of turnip I cure the tragedies of winter – melancholy and flu.
in the winter night I stay awake – planning, dreaming, listening to the whispers of the Universe
winter is a hunter – with cold blades it kills warmth, spilling white snow instead of blood
days are short enough anyway but surely there is nothing shorter than an early winter day