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Cracking voices bellow my feet,

As a calling to a desirable isomorphic future,

Of savoury buildings I could eat slowly,

With the rhythm of their motionless chocolate brown bricks.

But, certainly, without any tricks,

Then I'm just like a statue of ivory

Someone searching the unique image of the pure,

Even if looking to the chocolate dust over my feet...

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.