In cold blindness, those were my boldest spots, my blind spots, my tenderness towards sympathetic feelings. Graving out beside sweetening hearts, we let our soldiers' feet go away cold, our sweet boys, our birdless joy, and, therefore, our guilty, tender, all-embracing, silence. We burn the boots by the hearth of our houses. Our hands must not get cold. We need a proper box where to guard our most personal grief. Or, at least, a dust-free ash-tray.