Peste Noire
moins trente degres celsius
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The frost descends, to the depths of the bones,
And the misery, to the depths of the enclosures,
The snow and the misery, to the depths of the souls;
The heavy snow and diaphanous,
In the depths of cold beings and flameless souls,
Which fade, in the cabins.
At the crossroads of twisted paths,
The villages are alone, like death.
Extract from the poem “The Snow” by Émile Verhaeren