(It's) a little bit warmer behind the glass,
but the angry frosts
I enter these doors, as if into a garden
of July flowers.
I so want to warm them with warmth,
but white roses
in front of everyone's eyes,
I am ready to kiss and caress.
White roses, white roses,
defenceless thorns.
What have the snow, frosts
and ice of blue vitrines done to them?
People'll decorate their holiday with you
only for a couple of days.
And leave you to die on the white,
cold window.
And people carry you home*
and on a late evening
may the festive light fill, within an instant,
all the windows of the yards.
Who'd think to grow you in the winter,
oh white roses,
and to divert the cruel blizzards of cold winds
into this world.