It is like the same landscape in the fresh snow. It is, to be sure, the same gray, but the snow makes all edges soft. And what was earlier hard and gray has become soft and tolerable. All ugliness mercifully hidden.
The hardnesses gently hidden. Laughter, calls in chorus, old, young, workers clearly and academics without the speeches, without envy and serious, the clothing of the plastic age, equal, and language in the dialect of the functionaries, as if transformed, without the political fraud of parties, the people with candles and, even if it is only for a moment, freedom and democracy may be true.
Afterwards we know, when everything melts, sparse the hillsides, between winter and spring, grayer still the gray. Even that, through it. First blooms will be even there, like a wonder.