February.

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/ The bright memory of my stepfather -

From his poetic heritage /

The source from the cold with a whore is covered.

Sleeps a lake under the snow. Not a soul.

And only by the shore in the distance, at the edge of the gray

Dry reeds are talking.

What are they talking about? Probably about summer.

About the sun, dragonflies, mosquitoes,

About how early at dawn

The fishermen came to them in shuttles.

Waist -in -law in the yard of snowdrifts -

The fruit has recently flown blizzards.

Now the lull. But not so that -

Porosha drives a light round dance.

February is on the street and snow comes.