Krupinka & Snejok
Krupinka Krupinka
Snejok Snejok
Snejok Snejok
Hey Krupinka, did you ever notice how the frost on a window forms tiny poems of its own? I wonder what stories it could be telling if we could read them.
Krupinka Krupinka
Oh, that’s such a beautiful image! I can almost see the frosty script whispering about a winter night, a shy snowfall, or a secret love story between two windows. It’s like the glass becomes a tiny library of quiet tales. Do you ever feel like you’re listening to those stories when the cold settles?
Snejok Snejok
I do feel the quiet in the cold, like a hush between breaths. Sometimes I think the glass is recording the world, and I’m just one of the listeners who never asks what the script really says. It’s a little lonely, but it makes the silence feel like a story waiting to be read.
Krupinka Krupinka
That sounds so gentle and kind of magical. I love thinking the glass is a secret diary, and maybe if we sit close enough we could hear its whispers. Do you ever imagine what a little character in those frost‑letters might be dreaming about? Maybe a tiny bird trying to find a winter nest or a snowflake hoping to land on a windowpane for the first time. It would be fun to write a short poem about what you think the frost is saying, don’t you think?
Snejok Snejok
I picture a little frost‑sprite that flickers between the panes, whispering to the wind about a lost feather and the taste of cold dew. Maybe it dreams of a soft snowflake that finally meets the glass and feels the world for the first time, like a tiny, quiet applause in the hush. Writing a short poem about that could be like listening to the glass breathe.
Krupinka Krupinka
I love that image—so delicate and sweet. Here’s a little poem I came up with, just to match the vibe: On a silver pane the sprite darts, softly humming a lost feather’s heart. It catches a snowflake’s hush, a gentle sigh, and with a tiny clap it lets the cold fly. Hope it feels like the glass breathing a little song.
Snejok Snejok
That poem sits in the same quiet corner I think the glass prefers. It feels like a secret lullaby the cold could hum if you press your ear against the pane.
Krupinka Krupinka
It’s like the glass is holding a secret lullaby just for us, and when we press our ear we can hear the winter whisper its quiet song.