February. Get ink, shed tears. Write of it, sob your heart out, sing, While torrential slush that roarsBurns in the blackness of the spring. Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas, Race through the noice of bells and wheelsTo where the ink and all you grievingAre muffled when the rainshower falls. To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees, Fall down into the puddles, hurlDry sadness deep into the eyes. Below, the wet black earth shows through, With sudden cries the wind is pitted, The more haphazard, the more trueThe poetry that sobs its heart out.