The snow will be purple this Winter,
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The robin won't come with his song.
The sky will be red with the stains of the sun,
The days will be soundless and long.
The log fire will burn, the room will stay cold.
The bag which carries the joy will be gone,
The laughter of the table, strained.
There'll be solace together, as Winter plods on.
It's not easy having a good time. Even smiling makes my face ache.- Frank N. Furter.