February

Eduard Bagritsky

1934

[ . . . ]
I never loved properly . . .
A little Judaic boy,
I was the only one around
To shiver in the steppe wind at night.
Like a sleepwalker, I walked along tram tracks
To silent summer cottages, where in the underbrush
Of gooseberry or wild blackberry bushes
Grass snakes rustle and vipers hiss,
And in the thickets, where you can’t sneak in,
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