Boris Pasternak
- So it begins. Year two rushes..., by Don Mager
- So they begin. With two years gone..., by Cecil Maurice Bowra
- This is how they start. At two years..., by unknown author
«To Valery Briusov How frenzied the deceased looks! / How often the coffin stands lonely. / In anguished horror an admirer / Looks at her sharp high brow. I catch a whiff of dungeons, / The awful scrape of grave digging, – / You have come in. As at a duel, / Your frockcoat is buttoned...»
«That evening was dimly-smoldering, – / But for me it was a fiery one. / On that evening, as you had been hankering, / We went out to the Union. I remember your hands, weak from happiness, / The veins – networks of navy blue. / And my touching you hand was impossible, / Both were cov...»
«No, today I do not want you, / Memory, so just hold your tongue, / You vainglorious procuress, / Don’t procure me anyone. Don’t seduce me down dark alleys, / To the places left behind – / To the bold or to the timid / Lips I’ve kissed so many times. Sacrilegiously inspired, / ...»
«Every evening now I pray / God to let me dream of you: / I have loved you to the point / Where I can no longer love. Every day I take a walk / Past our now deserted rooms, / Trying to arouse my memory, / But she can’t remember you… And I stubbornly repeat / Your name again and ye...»