A Little Cottage on a Snowy Hill

As I seek the perfect spot to stay,
I see a little cottage,
on a snowy hill,
the white blanket of snow calmly sloping down the roof...
The gleaming icicles sticking out,
reflecting the only sunlight there is left
on this winter afternoon.

The windows stand open in the gentle breeze,
the glowing light streaming out,
painting the sky bright shades of yellow.
It reveals the stone path
that seems to never end as it reaches the white forest.

And as I step in the thick snow,
I look down at the wavy stone path printed with my footsteps,
and I look again the little cottage,
seeing the song of warmth from inside
swiftly rising up into the darkness through a rock chimney
in the form of a grey cloud of steam, warming all above me.

But this growing cloud of steam never stops to realize.
That all below is either ice or snow.
For the once-rushing river is now frozen solid,
is now hard and clear as a crystal,
it is unbreakable,
and the branches of trees
are covered with countless layers of the cold and winter of nature.

It is that sudden moment that I realize that
this little cottage,
on this snowy hill,
surrounded by the freezing trees and icy river,
is the perfect place to stay.