http://www.proza.ru/2016/01/10/1238 - текст оригинала.
Snow is bits of letters that were never read either because the post service works poorly, or because a receiver burned, crumbled or chucked an envelope right after seeing a sender’s name, maybe because the sender wasn’t courageous enough to drop it into a mailbox or, most probably, he just failed to put a sheet down on a table and pen some words; empty and meaningless, not changing a dang thing and, above all, fading against the whiteness of the snow drifting up and down like the bits of never-read letters.