The Days of Winter

With great fury you raise your arms, you whip the days with your cold fingers you attack without giving a breath. caressing the laughter of children playing under your care, your white meadows become the object of joy.

Leaving your little cold noses fiddling with your icy winds, more father does not give wait. Call from the door,—It's time to go back and let your brothers play- proclaim.

With sadness you slowly move away from the games and your new friends, shaking your cold tears melting on the road. The melancholy past games takes over the streets, and the laughter of children remember your last days.

Slowly the hot chocolate is replaced by lemonade, cold little noses with red cheeks. And the white games by aquatic competitions, your past glories only become visible in the memories framed on the wall.

And so one more day for you happens, the children who yesterday played tomorrow will go out in pairs and not in groups. And later your little ones will see you arrive with excitement more days later you will dismiss them, as well as them, you'll only become a memory framed in the wall.