On the way to the Uncleville


All the magpies in hamlets,
all the snow in the fields
bear black and white beards,
tails of February hicks.

Splash of flock fly-by, hanging 
over aspics of soil,
frozen deep since December
flush with woods. Even so,

the chilling jellies are bitten, 
neither stocked at the place,
where the witch Crazy Winter
keeps emissions of waste.

On the way to the Uncleville,
all the pine-sticks or less
taste the famine in heaven
as the soup of the mess.

A hungry meat, that's esurient, 
with a bone frost in pale... 
A magpie's color of homeland,
the empty news off the tail...

24.09.2011

http://zhurnal.lib.ru/d/deshpit_a_w/002_dorogadiatkovo.shtml