I would trade your season for mine,
But winter is more comforting
Than the flowers of spring.

Harvest the snow,
And there you have luxury.
The white sand of my country,
And the pure radiance of yours.

On the strings
We have slithers of ice
And polished brass
Is the wind.

Hear the percussive surge of river
Or the silence seducing empty roads.

We have found our orchestra of frosty season.
Conducted by currents in the sky.