a Snow country in the North 北の雪国では

I wonder if it is beautiful to be born or have lived in a Northen snow-country,
I have always been a Southerner and only have seen snow in imagination, and only some pitiable precipitation of water crystals very briefly in January here.
it does not last longer than a few hours, the precipitation of that sham snow in the South.
I had been to Scotland but there is only sluice there, the impure frozen water mixed with mud on the ground, stepped upon by every passer-by so busy with their life.
Ah, snow. from youth as I imagine thus, White-Snow in a Northen Snow-Country.
It must have been shinier than coating the ground, rivers, vegetations and living animals all with gold, if the white snow falls there. Nature's Midas touch. But instead of turning everything eventually worthless as it is the fate of all golden things that are used to purchase things you have not, the snow can only find worth in itself alone. it must always be worthy through itself and in itself, it must be solitary, independent of human values. as it is only frozen water, the water that brings out life in things… how do you put a price on water falling from your eyes, that meant once melancholy and heat inside your corporal body. Although in the mid-air it was by low temperature frozen in space (crystalized), but not in Time, and continues its flight downwards even though the warm heart that was beating inside liquid water was no more?
that snow-white brilliance, so precious it is. no wonder there is that fairy tale of Princess Snow-White even in the North, how would a Southerner imagine a thing of such clarity without touching upon human's many a wanton dolours and hidden sinful joy?
snow, the soft metal more precious than gold…
gold can only be melted in a scorching forge, there is no poetic humour in that thing, only heat of life in daily battle and war. it is a serious business, the business related to making Gold and making things golden.
Snow, on the other hand, is the precious metal that melts, in room temperature.
Even before you choose to touch her with your warm hand, with your warm life. She flees.
even if you try to preserve her with salt, curing her…of that illness, when you gather a handful of salt from your eye-glands and place your hands upon her…the snow only melts faster. Faster away…
Remember, she is only frozen in Space.
But not in Time!
She is the pure virgin that chooses to die in Spring, she cannot suffer that cruel warmth…
the warmth of Sun's decay and eventual doom, the decaying and dooming of all things golden and Gold itself,
when the Southern winds blow.
the sweet springtime Zephyr, that sows upon the earth the chary Eternal Death.
from which she must flee, from Spring. from the arrow of Time. for there is no true Love to be found without true life. even though as that dulcimer taste of soulless paean encharms and encaptivates all those who are to golden fates fallen as slaves and destined like golden things they tried to make or mine, from earth, to die.