Made of ice are they in the shiny Winter,
But still of colors of the imagination are certainly they,
And I almost forgot their pieces of water,
As if I was inebriated by their alcoholic voices during pray.
Petals of ice, stalks of snow, leafs of cold.
Frozen pollen taken by enchanted bees,
As those of a certain myth I once was told,
Flying over burning ice and living in a beehive at the trees.