We gather the firewood,
we light the fire,
But coldness is our song,
Those who warm near the fire,
They were sitting,
Their hands folded,
while thorns ate our health skin,
yet our song is coldness,
They say unto us,
That more firewood is needed,
To keep them warm,
We have to do it,
and see the smoke rising,
They hid the matchstick,
so we can't make our fire,
we have to add more firewood to the begotten fire,
or else our throats will be cut,
M