How did they create?
those geniuses who sat in cold rooms
and wrote music, or poetry, or novels…

the ones that painted masterpieces
between breaths on the hands for warmth,
or the sculptors that shook the chill off
between hammer strokes?

How could they possibly be creative
under those conditions?
and yet, somehow they were,
spreading vivid colors
on cold canvas,
extracting warmth from frigid Underwoods,
charging windmills with pointed icicles.

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