When the winter nights draw their black curtains over the expanse of the horizon,
and start to install their quietness into the heart of the existence,
When the mournful cold winds vent their sadness to the empathetic ears of the green leaves,
and they start to move in shivering sorrow,
When the cold winds vent their grief to the rigid pavements,
and they start to feel touched and begin to blow their dust at the insensitive passersby,
When the compassionate moon becomes more emotional and sheds its silver tears on the fluffy black clouds,
When the crowded streets become empty, and all their noisy trivialities start to subside gradually,
When streets lamps become fogged by the mist of the cold winter\'s exhaled breath,
and start to appear like spooky spirits,
When the deserted streets feel abandoned and cannot help giving in to their old sadness of their former days,
When the spirits of the deceased ones start to roam across their ancient residence,
and keep screaming voicelessly through the shroud of melancholic darkness that wraps their old abodes,
When the lonely walker begins to feel a mysterious message that keeps whispering in his soul,
A mysterious message that calls every soul from afar and away existence.
A message about our real home and the real meaning of our life,
beyond this dismal, dispiriting, mournful, alienating, cold winter nights.