Ice Carnival

As every winter evening falls, in a sheer cloak, thin as a shade, a herald of ice dreams calls and starts to lead a parade. The winter spirit plays with his bitter ice whiff. And freezes the old way into a picture, icily stiff. Bells of an old Cathedral cleave the deafness on the street. Dancing in a big ice hall, pellucid butterflies compete. They slide on the ice of a frozen looking-glass, telling stories to entice, drawing a carnival mask. It lulls to sleep the eyes, watching through it's face and holds them very tight into an everlasting embrace.