On the brink of peace, Winter danced endlessly at the stone fountains. The wind's rainy stairs tumbled down the waxen clouds, changing colors and shapes, rolling and dancing on the aged cobblestones of the alleys of patience, on the sword-like slabs of the roof of uneven dreams, on the stone walls, on the roots of the whitewashed dry stone of humanity.

Like thick tears of Antigone from long ago. Abruptly killing some fine sparks, uncovering the smokes of supplication at the peak of the gray-clad chimney. A silvery image in the unpaid miracle of a gifted life.

Then the pitch-black bird of insatiable sorrow flapped in the dark enchanted hollow of the towering plane tree, at the corner of the fountain of the pure water of peace, slicing through the impatient fine drops that descended babbling to the earth.

It got lost in the pale mist of the hill of the cypress trees of prayer, awkwardly unraveling the sorrow of the last leaves that fell to the ground, golden-yellow. The small church, on the plateau of the songs of the peak, turned the pages of the cloud's wings, to read the smile of God there towards the west, which bloomed defiantly atop a poor ray of the sun.

Beautiful all this, you might tell me. But why did you cry as soon as you heard the nightingale of flowering forgotten in the winter's cage, unguarded next to the upper door of the sky’s roof? And then you spread wide in the dreary light your Doric eyes, reading the writing in the sound of the bell: “How long will I cover with freshly washed light the Adamic shame? Heaven knows when your new spring will bloom!”