My eyes are filled with snow;
The moon's eyes are covered in mud;
Forgotten in the cupboard, a spoon of dross,
On the table's corner, enticing,
A glass full of hate.
Big cubes of ice tumble down into the void,
Crippled branches keep watch over deserted streets,
The snow creaks under unseen steps,
A white blanket mysteriously wraps
Putrefied, crimson leaves.
The season springs up and then dies;
Curses still linger in the rooms;
Time doesn't let itself be bought,
Either with silver coins, or with priceless treasures.
Oh, if only they would release us from our dream too,
Before spring arrived,
So that the ancient, celestial longings,
The rains' manes grown wild,
Streaming, wouldn't overcome us.