As a painter before the white canvas waiting patiently inspiration I wait, like a bird on a branch, waiting for the new season as a composer in the front of the scope dream his lyrical music I dream, like the Fox at the bottom of the rabbit hole I dream of the magic April as a novelist lost in his dreams awaits that arise the words I expected, like the las lizard of the winter that lie waiting for renewal as a single poet before the page dream rhyme tirelessly I dream, such the Mare in front of its fodder I dream of spring, but as a winemaker at his labor hope always a better season I hope, such my vineyard crying now hope to unreason