January day

January day.
Frosty, clear.
Far from the bustle of everyday life,
the country lives a week idly,
and renews the New Year.

And all worries are forgotten,
in the languor of long idle days.
The tables are elegantly set,
and life, of course, is more fun.

In the warmth, by the hot radiator,
in the smoke of cheap cigarettes,
fairies dance to the rhythm of a waltz,
and frost crackles outside the window.

To the cries of violins, the ringing of a guitar,
to the good old gramophone,
only couples circle around the hall,
snowflakes fly outside the window.