The ground is white, and the air is frozen.

Motionless, death has fallen over the garden.

Silent, not a bird here nor in Brooklyn.

The houses spit smoke, not a man to be seen.

The ground lays untouched, like a still screen.

I take my steps, and I break the muted air.

Like a child, I take advantage of the situation.

I refuse to be isolated in a room of despair.

With a hammer in hand, I quicken the construction.

The building will never be complete, as life is never complete.

When the hours of summer deplete,

and warm days become seldom,

I know, that winter has come.