Winter
by Boris Pasternak
I'm pressing my cheek to the whirl
Of winter, as a snail curled.
"Take your place, who's opposite - aside go!"
Noises-rustles, thunder of roar.
"You say - in "the sea is waving"? Into a tale,
Frizzling in a plait.
Where they would take their turn, unprepaired?
So - into the life? So - into the tale
About the unexpected end? About a fun, a laugh,
A hubbub, a running about and over?
You say - the sea is really waving and gets quiet
Without any notion of the moment?"
Is it a buzz of a shell?
The gossips of the rooms-the quiet-sites?
Is it a fire rattling with a door of an oven,
With his shadow quarreling, right?
And there're the gazes of the air-vents going up
And looking around - then go crying.
With a black click of the coaches in a cloud
There a dashing horseman's riding.
And there the unweeded snowdrifts
Crawl onto the window pedestal.
Say, having a little glass of vitriol,
Nothing there were and exists, ever all.
1913, 1928
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2 variant
Winter
by Boris Pasternak
I'm pressing my cheek to a crator
Of the scrolled, as a snail, winter.
'Take your places, who don't wish - aside go! '
The crash and clatter, thunder of vanity.
'So 'in sea there's the waving'? - To narrate this,
As a story, curling as a tight plait,
Where they enter the scene without preparing?
So - to life? So - insert that to a tale,
Where's the end of an accident? Elsemore
All about the laughter and hubbub?
So - ain't the sea is suddenly roaring
And calms down, besides the day's mark? '
Isn't that a buzz of a mere shell,
Or the gossips of the meek rooms?
Or it may be the quarrel with a shadow
Of fire, who shakes the stove door?
All the sighs of the outlets rise up
And look around - then into tears burst.
Cut with a black snort of coaches, far there
A reckless driver in a white cloud is galloping.
And the unweeded snowdrifts are creeping
Over the window's parapet.
Behind the glasses of a cuprum vitriol
Nothing and nothing is seen, as yet.
1913,1928
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Борис Пастернак
Зима
Прижимаюсь щекою к воронке
Завитой, как улитка, зимы.
«По местам, кто не хочет — к сторонке!»
Шумы-шорохи, гром кутерьмы.
«Значит — в «Море волнуется»? B повесть,
Завивающуюся жгутом,
Где вступают в черед, не готовясь?
Значит — в жизнь? Значит — в повесть о том,
Как нечаян конец? Об уморе,
Смехе, сутолоке, беготне?
Значит — вправду волнуется море
И стихает, не справясь о дне?»
Это раковины ли гуденье?
Пересуды ли комнат-тихонь?
Со своей ли поссорившись тенью,
Громыхает заслонкой огонь?
Поднимаются вздохи отдушин
И осматриваются — и в плач.
Черным храпом карет перекушен,
В белом облаке скачет лихач.
И невыполотые заносы
На оконный ползут парапет.
За стаканчиками купороса
Ничего не бывало и нет.
1913, 1928