Boris Pasternak

But he was belov’d. Not a thing
Could vanish or lose its life’s mission,
The lesser  – his talent and kin, 
And sketches of his compositions.

You’d just rise up your music stand
And just touch the cold keyboard – 
The effort will dazzle you and 
You’ll smooth all her wings, strong and broad.

And come the white snows and moon,
And windows’ glass double-braided, 
And twigs in the silver galloons…
And time will be suddenly ended.

And you will be shocked in a flesh,
When sunk into concert’s embraces:
Much humbler than we ourselves
Is our everyday deathless.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001