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Firstly I wrote this poem in Hungarian on a cold winter day
and once I decided to translate...

Submitted:Mar 16, 2014    Reads: 6    Comments: 2    Likes: 3   

The hoar-spirited bushes hide and lie...
The old glacier of the ice sky
Wears the hard coffin of chill.
The moon feels cold. It becomes ill.

/The sound of a pack of wolves bite into the wind,
The snow storm roars echo throught the wild.../



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