Boris Pasternak
Indian Summer

The currant leaf is prickly and coarse.
The windows in the house ring with laughter.
There, women shred it, peppering the cloves,
And marinate it all soon after.

The forest heaves, like a mocking scoffer,
All of this clamor onto the slope of the hill,
Where the sun-burned hazel hangs over
As though a campfire scorches it still.

Here, the path leads down to the gorge,
Where the snags lie parched and dismantled.
Feeling pity for autumn, you watch
As it sweeps everything down the channel.

And it’s sad that the universe’s simpler
Than the scholars may like to pretend,
And it’s sad that the copses are sinking in,
And that everything’s reaching its end.

That it’s useless to gawk at it all,
When the valley is burned into cinder
And the pale white soot of the fall
Pulls the gossamer into the window.

The garden fence is broken on the side,
And birches hide the narrow, dusty trail.
There’s laughter and hubbub inside,
The same clamor is heard on the vale.

Translated by Andrey Kneller