The church-like ghosts listened in the unraveled cold,
While we shared random laughs and random hopes.
We walked until the coffee-coloured dusk
Under a winter sun through a winter glass.
The streets of the city were stoned still and quiet
But alive with the mutterings of history.
Behind us you could hear horses on the cobbles
And the passing dresses of dead ladies.
Before us was the North Wind carrying with it snows
And all sorts of chaos in its white crisis.