Alina Simone

In The House Of Baba Yaga


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It’s hunting time
A ball falls to the ground
Build a fire like jack london’s

When november ends
And the artic winds cut down
Slumber til the snow melts
And you cannot just pretend
Sure we’re all alone
In a house made out of
Broken bones on chicken legs
That run

So write your name
With a finger in the frost
Waiting, waiting for the holidays
Waiting, waiting for the holidays