It's february. To get an ink - and cry!
To write about february through tears,
While rumbling slush is going fired
In season of the spring.
To get a coach. For six grivnas,
Through Annunciation, through wheel's squeal
To move to place, where it is
Raining more bustlier than ink or tears.
Where, as the pears charred,
From the trees - the thousands of rooks
Will fall to puddles and bring down
The dry sadness to the bottom of looks.
And under it the thawed patches blacken
And wind is scooped by yells and screams.
And unexpected would be better
To make the verses through hard tears.
1912