Walking in winter Budapest

Fluffy shadows stroll through the pavements;

while their soles tread on the asphalted skin, it is glittering;

The street looks like it would be covered by black ore;
Does cold make things more solid and brittle? Anyway,
The walls seem to be resistant to scratching, And

If I touched something, it might wound me. 

When I walked down the street,

I saw a dead rough sleeper man's body;

he was got lied on the bare concrete,

He had a face, but nobody wanted to see that,

or his grey and see-through corpse,

which used to be his mums' infant. Was he?
How can this happen? How can we step over them?

Two police safeguarded him.
When I mention it to someone,
most people do not understand,
and they answer that "they shouldn't have drank."
They blame homeless people.
The smell of these kinds of thoughts:
"No mercy; we must be tin hearted."
These are frozen hearts' favourite meals.
Even the city doves deserve more.
Should we swallow more sarcasm? More indifference?
I don't want to discuss ethics. 
That would be time-wasting in this world.
I want to walk away from this Gehenna
and leave behind this ice-hearted wasp colony;
I hear their constant masticating behind the restaurants' walls,
rubbing their bodies with each other and, absurdly, producing cold.
They love meat. They love its terrible taste.
I am flowing along Margit Boulevard,

Cars are queuing everywhere,
mainly diesel air killers.

Their exhaust pipes are bubbling like boiling blood puddings,

I can upchuck that lovely poisoned fog,

which is like sipping heavy metal dust from a Petri dish.

I was walking amongst the knee-high boots; 

local women seemingly love these,

and while they are wandering

their faces look melancholic;

grief is the underpainting of this place;
Sometimes, I think that suicide was invented here.

Wintriness depression of millions of spirits.

I am walking on the way home.
The gold-coloured dog poops appear to be fruits of shabby, dark balconies.

I needed to find a little light as I did not want to be depressive.

I can see now. It circulates shopping centres;

those are such churches of happiness.

People do the shopping; they are choking and smiling,

they get used to this honest pretending,

and survive by cruel selfishness.