Snow falls over Chagall's village in March.
On the temples of a man who was standing eager for spring
a newly emerged vein
is fiercely throbbing.
Stroking the newly emerged vein
on the man's fiercely throbbing temples,
the snow comes riding on a myriad of wings,
dropping from the skies and covering
the roofs and chimneys in Chagall's village.
When snow falls in March
the diminutive winter berries of Chagall's village
take on olive-green hues again
and in the evening the womenfolk
kindle the year's most beautiful fires
in the kitchen hearth.