My poor soul must be made of snow.As winter quickker, a  bitter sadness covers me, my eyes turn dead red, as if against my blue face. A storm occurs in my stomach and makesmy purple hearth trace death.As I feel my hearth race, my feet and hands are dead cold against my disgrace.Yet my eyes aren't wild, while  death is squatting next to my bed vase. Nor is the snow called my soul no more, now it’s warm as reform!Then my soul flows through my eyes as dry tears, they kiss the ground, trying to warm my feet and finges...