Long-Long Winter

The pricking needles of cold stars and hoarfrost hypnotizingly sparkling in the dense crispy air, a half-sky pearl hallo crowns the dead mercury-liquid Moon; violent blizzards have been finally superseded by severe frost. Grasses are peacefully sleeping under the snow whiteness. Fords, Mercedeses, BMWs, Nissans are moving slowly groping their way through thick clouds of exhaust mist; rare chilly passers-by hurrying towards a hopefully better for existence place. Here, in the rare air of winter, through the mist and frost of weariness and apathy, through the concrete substance of the night wind, a brightly lit advertising poster screams right into eyes and minds:"WE WILL WIN! United Russia", and the never hibernating on his three-color way grizzly-bear looks as ever strong, resolute and satisfied. There is no bum soaker, no thief, no whore under the dead-festive-rosy light of the street lamps. No single crow or dog or jackdaw in the dead space of eternal frost. All they have gone. In winter, conscience seems to be a too abstract matter. The colored scraps are much more essential. Nov 25, 2011 ------------------------------------------ a constructive critique is welcome