The sky is dreaming in February

And the sky dreams of February,
they run towards spring, headlong, minutes,
and unconscious notes,
I take the clarinet on a clear day.

And this music breaks from the soul,
and flies away right into heaven,
life is made, as if more interesting,
in the harsh, frozen wilderness.

She is gentle, contrary to frost,
and pours cleanly, frankly,
and I play slowly,
and, too, I fly away, absolutely.



At this place, along Gogol Street, there was a beautiful wooden residential building.
Its ruins were covered with snow.
Sad,
And the day is sunny, frosty.
Life goes on.