Oh, Boreas who rules the Northern Wind. Hail, oh you, who dance beautifully. Along with it, come colder climes, come shorter light. Algid gale breathes often, the world goes to hibernaculum. Winter overcomes, frore is the life. This gelid season is your domain. Its murkiness weakens the mind. Its frigidity frosts the bones. Its blue breaks the soul. The days are brumal and the nights are hiemal. Yet, come halcyon days, you are festive: Snow and névé, ice and hoarfrost, flashy women and men in coats and boots, a circle of family before the furnace, cashmere and fleece, hot chocolate and eggnog... Though your dance is difficult, for ever as it may seem, you will eventually get weary and will finally be succumbed, until the time you dance again after one Earth's circle.
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