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You wonder what else can happen,

now that snowdrops spangle the high pastures

in the Merla days and you can wade

the Great River in mid-Lent.

Now that the winter spirits have vanished,

fled without notice, to end up annulled

in the absolute freeze of outer space.

What will the May hay bring along?

As you wonder this, and more,

the double-touched norther whips your face,

wipes away both hope and despair.

Now you feel warm, then you feel cold,

it sounds laughable anyway.

The view of distant storms amassing

looks like a sketch of incongruity.

The subtle smell of brine from Nordic shores

across the Alps evokes your hidden fears.

You yield to the gusts all the same.