February. Get ink, shed tears.

Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,

While torrential slush that roars

Burns in the blackness of the spring.

Go hire a buggy, for six grivnas,

Race through the noice of bells and wheels

To where the ink and all you grieving

Are 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, hurl

Dry sadness deep into the eyes.

Below, the wet black earth shows through,

With sudden cries the wind is pitted,

The more haphazard, the more true

The poetry that sobs it`s heart out.

~~ Boris Pasternak, 1912 ~~

This is Russia soulful, dramatic and emotional, as Pasternak leaves no room for doubt his real feelings on many times the cruelest month; a stern mistress  without pity, or remorse, when her icy talons sometimes squeezes her captive prey the hardest.

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