In the middle of the arctic night,
where does life find its comfort?
Does it sleep under the piles of ice,
or breathe along the winds?
Does at least the wind move,
or is everything frozen
in time
and in white,
a huge space of empty nothing.
Where have the butterflies flown,
when did the rainbows fade,
when did the Sun go under?
Oh, don't tell me there are only polar bears
that live here.
Who bleached all the colours away?

In the middle of the arctic white,
I remember how
a stranger had once tried
to pace a story on the ice,
but the white winds
would always come and blow his steps away,
until I lost him
and he lost himself.