The sun is hotter than the top ledge in a steam bath;
The ravine, crazed, is rampaging below.
Spring -- that corn-fed, husky milkmaid --
Is busy at her chores with never a letup.
...
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February. To get some ink and cry!
To write about February in sobs,
While rumbling slush is
Burning with the wet-black soils.
To get a horse-cab. For six grivnas,
Through peal of bells and click of wheels
To be conveyed where the showers
Are noisier than ink and tears.
Where like the charcoaled pears,
Off those trees the thousand rooks
Will tear off into the puddles and
Rain dry sorrow down my eyes.
Under it black is melting through,
And wind is ravished with the calls.
The more they random, more they truly
The poems are rhyming in the sobs.
1912
Translated by Roman Golubev @ 26 Jan 2008
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February. To get some ink and cry! To write about February in sobs, While rumbling slush is Burning with the wet-black soils. To get a horse-cab. For six grivnas, Through peal of bells and click of wheels To be conveyed where the showers Are noisier than ink and tears. Where like the charcoaled pears, Off those trees the thousand rooks Will tear off into the puddles and Rain dry sorrow down my eyes. Under it black is melting through, And wind is ravished with the calls. The more they random, more they truly The poems are rhyming in the sobs. 1912 Translated by Roman Golubev @ 26 Jan 2008