The Mystical Night With Nebulous Stars
February's air is not really that frigid,
I stay warm in my fleece jacket
and insulated brown boots;
I'm also wearing a wool hat
I bought a month ago in Lake Placid,
its color is green and smells of spruces.
I have walked past pine groves
without the glowing eyes of owls,
a light breeze brushes them against
the mystical night with nebulous stars;
their branches are stiff and would be broken
if the wintry wind, taking a snooze, swept
them hard when nobody is woken.
Nostalgic thoughts make the cold blood warm,
their images appear amid silver shadows
reflecting a moonlight unsteady and vague;
unafraid as always, I go past them
not fearing ghosts or howling wolves,
and even less the ravaging snowstorm
about to approach soon. I'm thinking of Prague
where the temperature is much colder and
walking through the cobblestone streets,
one sees the magical Christmas unfold...
snow on red rooftops and Marionette Puppets.
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