Petit poeme en prose in English

In every destiny there is a time of silence.
Having crossed the line of comprehension, each goes its own way.
The desert loves to cover itself with a gray and windy shawl.
The rainforest loves to pour the rain all over itself that is washing away the memory of dust.
There are also places that choose white robes for their path to rebirth.
Having poured out the last summer juices in autumn, covering the wounds with fallen leaves. Nature becomes immobile under a snowy feather bed -
puts itself to sleep and paints the animals white.
But there is neither facelessness nor static in a snowy masquerade.
The snow is splashed with coral drops of bullfinches and mountain ash.
A drifting snow is dancing with a low paw of green spruce.
The sun plays with glares in snowflakes, shows itself, but does not give the warmth.
And only frozen words hang like steam in the air and are waiting for you to come and listen to them!

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(русский оригинал тут http://stihi.ru/2020/12/18/9552)