Dikt; 1912 av Boris Pasternak

February. Get ink, shed tears.
 Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
 While torrential slush that roars
 Burns in the blackness of the spring.

Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
 Race through the noice of bells and wheels
 To where the ink and all you grieving
 Are muffled when the rainshower falls.

To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
 A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
 Fall down into the puddles, hurl
 Dry sadness deep into the eyes.

Below, the wet black earth shows through,
 With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
 The more haphazard, the more true
 The poetry that sobs its heart out.

(Diktet finnes på russisk i slutten av sangen Aprés Moi av Regina Spektor )


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