It Is Snowing in Brussels

It Is Snowing in Brussels

When it snows in Brussels, something ancient awakens within me. The city falls silent, as though holding its breath, and beneath the white veil, almost scarlet in the troubled light, everything is transformed. The snow covers the dirt, the hopes cast aside, the visible and invisible waste, and for a moment the world seems forgiven. The sidewalks become blank pages, the rooftops silent altars. Brussels is no longer heavy or weary: it becomes a postcard, pure in appearance, almost unreal, like a mystical vision offered to those who still know how to look. In this sacred whiteness, I believe I catch a glimpse of the promise of a city reinvented, washed clean by the sky.