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.
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