ink

While February has not yet dropped out,
not flowing in streams under the escarpment,
let's pour ink and drink,
Hieronymus Borisych Bosch.

And let the tram behind the house of life
carries the workers to the village,
where the stop is hoofed
hot plywood horse
and broken hour brick glinka
blushes in a kiln
for a raucous plate,
that rotate Rookie-rooks.

You'll see, by noon it will be clear:
the day stood with him
and we did not drink in vain
ink, Bosch Jerome.