Winter has arrived, we’re in the depths of November
And yet the lines won't come as they should in this frost,
This frost I love, the frost that painted me a thousand words
Last winter – sparkling fields, shimmering leaves,
Everything gleaming, all white and true.
They were new.
New poetry, that’s what it was.
But the frost has moved from roads and trees
To my hand, my brain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem