February. Take ink and weep,
write February as you’re sobbing,
while black Spring burns deep
through the slush and throbbing.
...
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If anybody knows about winter in Siberia, it's Boris Pasternak. This verse is the best for me: Where rooks in thousands falling, like charred pears from the skies, drop down into puddles, bringing cold grief to the depths of eyes.
Awesome description of happenings in February and bleakness spread in the aftermath. Thanks for sharing.10 points.
Is anyone else floored by this excellence? Nice? Oh, far beyond nice. Let's strive for such greatness when we read the words penned by giants.