Cold wind sings the same song, I walk alone on peaks The snow drifts like old memories, silent, thick, relentless. I stare at the white horizon, because the world keeps turning— and I don’t want it to turn on anyone else. Each step is a quiet protest against the heat of crowds, the silence inside is louder than any roar of the storm. So I’ll climb, shiver, breathe, and maybe forget the rest. In the blizzard’s eye, I find a corner where I belong.