“Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping…” by Boris Pasternak
Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping…
Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping,
Of February, in sobs and ink,
Write poems, while the slush in thunder
Is burning in the black of spring.
Through clanking wheels, through church bells ringing
A hired cab will take you where
The town has ended, where the showers
Are louder still than ink and tears.
Where rooks, like charred pears, from the branches
Into the melting snow, instilling
Dry sadness into
Beneath – the earth is black in puddles,
The wind with croaking screeches throbs,
Poems are forming out of sobs.