as I’m writing on this contraption
this business of hitting letters differs not much
from climbing a mountain in winter
using a stick and some decent equipment
these square letters are like some unreachable cliffs
I type wearing gloves made of rough wool
my nose is red like on some Tibetan village girl
and the soil where these letters were trampled upon
is so hardened that it turned black
though there is a slim chance
that I will make it to the top
I will make a stop by the nearest hut
spewing fumes all around
to rest a bit sipping that black liquid from samovar
so I can continue walking on the frozen gutturals
that generally coagulate there at the top
into a white death
EN 
MK