The dreams have returned.
Cold dreams.
Grey dreams.
Uncertain and full of possibilities,
though not infinite -
they are confined to one place, many spaces sprouting out of the same 
foundation:
an old cathedral;
century-old lakes, rivers, and grass and wood;
the ever-rotatory skies;
the repetitive sound of leather soles on asphalt,
on mushy mud,
on snow -
slow steps,
panting steps - 
at times lonely, at times besides hers.

Which wings, whether metal or feathery,
bring me forth to these northern skies this time
to face the aged stone,
the ragged fabric,
a passing starry-eyed crowd,
and the bridges of foamy clouds?