The snow falls on the house's chimney
Now, in the hall of mirrors
There is a woman waiting
A man smitten in her blood
Ploughs her body's blooming fields
A man is born of her ribs
Abides in her
Hides in her memory
Pulsating in her ravenous blood drops
Ascending like a tree
In her cells and in her trembling limbs
A man took her
In his embrace
And the four seasons' flame in her blood blazed.