This year, I’m like a Zebercet. I’m waiting for the snow that never arrives. These questions have also diminished. Everyone knows that there is no snow. Every now and then, a few people ask with hope, to see if there is any; they then walk away in disappointment. The more I wait for the snow, the more I get bleak. Snow turns into a distant fantasy. I mourn the cold and the white in this dry, brown winter.

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