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. . Poems Boris Pasternak

. . Poems Boris Pasternak.


(29 (10 ) 1890 30 1960) .


Winter night

The blizzards covered up the earth
And roamed uncurbed
The candle burned upon the desk
The candle burned

As in the summer, moths are drawn
Towards the flame
The pale snowflakes flown
Unto the pane

Upon the glass, bright snowy rings
And streaks were churned
The candle burned upon the desk
The candle burned

On the illumined ceiling
Shadows swayed
A cross of arms, a cross of legs
A cross of fate

Two boots fell down on the floor
With crashing sound
And from the crown tears of wax
Dripped on the gown

And nothing in the snowy haze
Could be discerned
The candle burned upon the desk
The candle burned

A gentle draft blew from the corner
Flame in temptation,
Would raise two wings into a cross
As if an angel

It snowed a lot all through the month
This frequently occurred
The candle burned upon the desk
The candle burned

translated by Andrey Kneller



The clamor ceased. I walked onto the stage.
While leaning on a jamb, through cheers,
I'm grasping in the echo's distant range
What will occur during my years.
The twilight of the night has gathered
Like thousands of binoculars on me.
If so you're willing, Father,
I beg you, take this cup from me.
I love your plan, so firm and stubborn
And I agree to play this role.
But as of now, there's another drama.
This time, expel me, I implore.
But, the predestined plot proceeds.
I cannot alter the direction of my path.
I am alone, all sinks in phariseeism.
To live a life--is not an easy task.

translated by Andrey Kneller



There's still a twilight of the night.
The world's so young in its proceeding,
That countless stars in sky abide,
And each one, like the day, is bright,
And if the Earth contained that might,
She'd sleep through Easter in delight,
Under the Psalter reading.

There's still a twilight of the night.
It's far too early; it appears,
That fields eternally subside,
Right from crossroad to the side,
And 'til the sunrise and the light,
There is a thousand years.

The Mother Earth, of clothes deprived,
Has nothing else to wear,
To strikes the church bell through night
Or echo choirs in the air.

And from the Maundy Thursday night
Right 'til the Easter Eve,
The water bores the coastal side
And whirlpools heave.

The forest, in exposed expanse,
To celebrate Christ's Holy times,
As though in prayer, calmly stands,
In gathered stems and trunks of pines.

And in the city, in one place,
As if a mob commenced,
The naked trees sincerely gaze
Upon the Church's fence.

Their eyes are fully filled with rage.
And their concern is heard.
The gardens slowly leave their cage,
The Earth shakes wildly in its range,
They're burying the Lord.

A light is seen that dimly glows,
Black kerchiefs and the candle rows,
By weeping eyes--
And suddenly, there's a procession,
With holy shroud of the Christ
And every birch, with a concession,
Along the entrance subsides.

They walk around the royal square,
Along the sidewalk's edge.
Into the vestibule with care,
They bring the spring and springtime flair,
A scent of Eucharist in the air
And vernal rage.

And March is tossing snow around
To beggars gathered on Church ground,
As though a person just walked out,
Opened the shrine, took what he found
And gave it all away.

The singing lasts throughout the night,
Those who have wept enough, they lastly,
Calmly and gently stroll outside,
Onto the land under the light,
To read the Psalter or Apostles.

But after midnight, all will quiet,
Hearing the vernal lecture,
That if we wait just for a while,
We'll cast His death into exile
With holy resurrection.

translated by Andrey Kneller



Oh February, to get ink and weep!
And write about it mourning,
While the uproaring, raging sleet,
Like in the spring, is burning.

Go rent a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the blare of bells and wheels,
To where the shower often drizzles
Much louder than ink and tears.

Where, like the charcoal pears, the crows
From trees, by thousands, will rise,
Crash into puddles, and then toss
Dry sadness deep into your eyes.

Below, thawed patch is showing through,
With loud cries, the wind is grubbed.
The more haphazard the more true--
The poems are composed and sobbed.

translated by Andrey Kneller

. . Poems Boris Pasternak
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