In the morning you plunge into the deepest dreams. To Imbolc, the world is covered with the thickest snows. The clear disturbances of the spring wind are not yet heard, the pearly glare of the new moon is still barely perceptible, the changes conceived in the darkness are not yet visible. Still the most silent in the year lies silence. If anyone wakes up early, he will see only a continuous snowy fog. But the one who woke up already feels that somewhere inside, through a dream, a grain has stirred. Outside, ice blizzards are still blowing and singing in milky dawns. And in my mind, spring is already humming. She slowly opens the magic chest, and releases a white flame and silver into the light with a light ringing stream.