In a minute, a warm embrace
gave way to this fierce blast,
gelid enough to rip your clothes,
and to street corners ground sharp by frost
around which blow granules
like razor-sharp semolina that find their way
even behind your fogged-up glasses.
All that lyrical poetry praising the joys
of winter, enthusiastic to the point of bursting
makes you weep, and you forget the criteria
according to which this region is fit
for human habitation. Misericordia!
To be a shade among shades, I slink
through the door of Hades, and only
after the second or third schooner manage
a shaky balance between hope and despair,
talk and politics,
me and the others.