I found myself out in the cold

on the third, fourth and fifth day.

Just consequences of a new beginning,

there’s no turning back, so I’m told.

Walking on virgin white frozen grass,

in shoes that belong to the summer.

Seeing the future at the end of the path,

connected with my brain through a bypass.

Is this real or do I hallucinate my living now,

for I don’t see the green that’s supposed to be.

Howling winds and smoking chimneys, 

this should be down south, not Moscow.

Three hundred and sixty degrees to choose.

Three hundred and sixty days to take chances.  

How do I get rid of this breaking down feeling,

to have any prospect of nothing less but loose.

*****