Boris Pasternak
The Landlord

(The Wedding)

Having crossed the curb in the courtyard,
the Landlord journeyed to the feast,
into the Bride’s house —

with him departed the accordion player,
behind the bolted door of the Bride,
between one and seven.

The snatches of talk had quieted down.
but the sun rose blood red in the middle of the bed —
he wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep.

The accordion began to weep,
the accordion-player lay spread out on his instrument —
hearing the palms clapping, the shuffle of the shining serfs.

The feast’s whole flourish jingled like silver in his hand,
again again again again,
the song of the broken accordion.

Rustling through the bed and the sleeper,
the noise, whistling and the cheering,
swam a white peahen.

She moved her hips,
and strutted out in the street,
this beautiful bird...

She shook her hair, she ruffled her breast feathers;
suddenly the noise of the game
is the stamping of a whole procession.

She dropped into the hole of the sun.

The sleepy courtyard grows businesslike,
horses stand up by the wooden well,
teamsters shout down the laughter of the feast.

A band of pigeons
blasts from the sky’s blue bowl,
as if it were following the wedding party,

as if life were only an instant, of course,
the dissolution of ourselves into others,
like a wedding party approaching the window.

Translated by Robert Lowell