Enchanted February with all its might,
Powdered cheeks hollowed snowdrifts under the window,
With white groats, everything is out of suit
And then he swept into the catch with a prickly chill.
And the soul fell, wrapping herself in a pea jacket,
It’s on, it’s suddenly clogged, pulled by a jerk,
Get out of the body, but how about it?
Over the iron gate, go out without her.
I until the fall with her rains somehow hold out,
The whisper of your lips that they waited so long not to frighten me there,
You do not tear my soul out of the body, do not rush, wait a moment,
You haven’t served your time yet; don’t run from me.
The doctor is a gray-haired old man with thin glasses,
He said to me: “Hold on,” but as I explain to him,
What is with my soul a body on knives
With a cough, midnight will run away if I fall asleep.
As we sinned with her, there, in the wild we
And now inside she’s hardening and wheezing,
With gravity fights the earth,
And February fascinates with non-flying weather.
I until the fall with her rains somehow hold out,
The whisper of your lips that they waited so long not to frighten me there,
You do not tear my soul out of the body, do not rush, wait a moment,
You haven’t served your time yet; don’t run from me.