Humans? Well, I'm not sure about that.

More about Humans? Well, I'm not sure about that.

Initial structure of the poem, made by DeepSeek-V3 AI:

The year folds itself quietly,
like a well-worn map,
its edges softened by time and touch.
The sun, a pale coin,
hovers low above the horizon,
spilling weak light over snow-draped fields.

The forest stands silent,
its pines heavy with frost,
their branches cradling the stillness.
A lone crow cuts through the air,
its call sharp and fleeting,
a reminder of life in the vast white hush.

Smoke curls from chimneys,
threading the cold with the scent of birchwood.
Inside, candles flicker,
their warm glow defying the long night.
The kettle hums on the stove,
a steady companion to the quiet.

Footprints mark the snow,
leading to the sauna by the lake,
where steam rises like a ghost,
and the heat presses close,
chasing away the year’s weight.

The stars emerge,
bright and countless,
stitching the sky with their cold fire.
The northern lights shimmer faintly,
a fleeting dance,
as if the year itself is whispering goodbye.

In the stillness,
there is a pause,
a breath held between what was and what will be.
The land rests,
waiting,
as the old year slips into memory,
and the new one waits,
just beyond the edge of the dark.