Winter, and outside my window a trembling one showing wrinkles on the ice, a mother, a lover, a mistress, the one that we have taken for granted.
Compared with a love that had could be but wasn't, women and Earth share the same thoughtless destiny from man.
But when we become very old we realize how bad lovers we have been to both...

On my window, the whispers of winter outside,
telling me that I should be getting hugs warmth,
instead, trembling in solitude’s companionship
as the fire dies in a sad heart, where’s no hope.

Summer left, the earth seems to metamorphose
on a wrinkled ice lady with her hair full of snow,
that all of a sudden mummified warm feelings
conserving them forever in a came made of cold.

Remembering tender days now in the shadows
I open my eyes every morning, with such awe,
another day to remember what I could have had
another year to weigh me down and be so old.

I feel in my lips the ethereal touch of that kiss,
like Ulysses touched by Circe on is passing boat,
impossible will be seventy seven times seven,
burning the candle both ends in the name of love.

Ear on the glass pane I hear winter calling my name,
using that sweet but never forgotten delicate voice,
a Siren asking me to step outside and go to sleep
on the white bed made by an angel on the snow.

Ask myself if you will be there, expecting all of me,
because, it will not make sense for me to die and go
to yet another place full of solitude and dead fires
it should be only for winter to be the owner of cold.

Steps in forest, can it will be you approaching?
or there’s someone else that had come between us?
Olympus gods seems to be so jealous of mortal man
that for it we were forced to hide from them our love.

On my window, the whispers of winter outside,
a tender lullaby to put forever to sleep my soul,
all those promised kisses that never were given
by a wrinkled ice lady with her hair full of snow.