Boris Pasternak
Death of a Poet

Unbelievable, — they declared, — rubbish,
But I overheard it from a second,
Third, everyone. Into stopped time
Lined up without distinction were
Houses of officials and business men,
With yards and trees covered with
Rook-cocks, in sun’s intoxication,
Flaring up at the rook hens, squawking
For each fool to be led not astray
into sin. As if lately were
not now. As if hours could turn back. And
minutes turn back. The neighboring yards,
neighboring fences, trees, raucous with rooks.

Pain-creased faces perspired,
Steaming like rubbish in the yard.
It was a day, a harmless day, more harmless
Than any of your ten days before it.
They swarmed into the foyer
Lined up as if for a firing squad.

As if, flattened into one, bream and pike
Pouring out through the sluice gate
Into the marsh minefield like firecrackers.
While their reluctant moans welled up in waves.

You slept, laid across your bed, maligned,
Slept, at rest from grueling work, —
A handsome twenty-two year old,
Just as your Tetraptych predicted.

You slept, cheek pressed to the pillow,
Slept, — while as fast as your feet could
You lunged over and over trying to crash
Into the ranks of youthful sagas.
You smashed all the way through
In one astonishing leap.
Your shot was like Mount Etna
Above foothills of cowards and quitters.
A friend so well versed in controversies
That as well as me he neglected — life.

Well, what hundred remain? Against the wall
Trying to rub off anxiety’s dirt, other than
Ashes, what did your gun achieve?

But he met pure scum along the road.
Single minded he did not swerve
To flee beyond the boarders
In undue haste from his suffering
When a good chance offered itself.

So the banality of moldy curds
And cream simply left him to howl.

Translated by Don Mager