During the white winter,
When the warmth was all gone,
Jack Frost flew down from the mountains,
All night long.
The roses are dead,
As he circled the sky,
And while everything was filled with sadness,
Was spirit was high,
The wind from the west,
Chilled me in bed,
I play my piano,
At a nice walking speed,
And in my head I can't help but dream.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem