What can be done, when the soul is led by the winds of the seasons, like if it's a locomotive full of buds ‽ What can be done when the heart is breathing the rainbows, even if the snowflakes are still dancing outside‽ Where to direct them, when the blood boils into the veins, while their act seems as if something stumbling them in a landscape with the ambiance of summer, choked into a stalking gaze‽ Why, when so many butterflies are flattering in the dew of the moon, the feeling it is as if  they're caught in a frozen light‽ How many questions are unavoidable, when inside me, you're already the favorite season out of the thousands of dreams, while I am, like a flake in summer, in your arms, melted‽