Alone in the white landscape, dark silhouettes skip and hop. The dull sound of their feet on the thick blanket covering last spring’s grass interrupts the laughter and screams. Snow is hurled across the street, amusing the players but annoying the passers-by. The sky, trees and monuments are all sporting the snow as if it were their best attire: a cold layer but a symbol of protection and eternal poetry.
The aroma of freshly made coffee dripping into a large cup and the scent of burnt wood of a recently lit match embalms the crisp air, appeasing the restless minds and reassuring the tormented souls.
Holding on to their sorrows, the children throwing snowballs and giggling are filling their hearts with evanescent joy. For a mere instant, winter ceases the monotonous tempo of the city and lets notes of a happier melody entertain the dark silhouettes. Snowflakes float along with the leaves, swirling around the branches and creating diversion from the sombre spectacle of the grey sky.
The children play until their hands freeze under their gloves, and their noses turn red under their scarves. At four, just as the Night starts to make its entrance on the white stage, they leave the parks and gardens to warm their bodies next to a stove with a hot cup of cocoa.
Nothing replaces their laughter and the city misses its children’s liveliness. Winter and the Night take over, once again. Until daylight returns, only whispers will be heard in the streets.