*This is a translation of a poem by B. Pasternak.
Oh February, to get ink and weep!
And write about it mourning,
While the uproaring, raging sleet,
Like in the spring, is burning.
Go rent a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the blare of bells and wheels,
To where the shower often drizzles
Much louder than ink and tears.
Where, like the ashen pears, the crows
From trees, by thousands, will rise,
Crash into puddles, and then toss
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, thawed patch is showing through,
With loud cries, the wind is grubbed.
The more haphazard, the more true--
The poems are composed and sobbed.