Now, as the rain bends over the puddle, and the day rusts dropping towards night like a dry leaf, as the sharp wind spreads about, I fear the ice and its glassy pavements, the snow as it begins to roughen, I fear the cold of winter, growing transparent from the depths, for tenderness wells up out of me like a first snowdrop unfurling into your sleet, flowering in your hard inclement season. Viera Prokešová, translated by James Naughton