It's a porous-snow-curtain,
Lying on the floor of the hill,
Tangled in the pins of the sun,
And, waiting for a hand, *****.
The fog, prisoned in the vale,
Fumbles to open its water_gate,
And keeps looking up, holding it.
The child, in the summer clothes,
Plays with his grandfather,
And both cross the roads,
In quest for more fun,
While the pigeons
Coo at the pole,
Picking up their taste
From the bowl.