Boris Pasternak
Garden teardrop

The terrible! — After each drop, it stays
All ears: is it sole still, trying
To squeeze the branches like wrinkled lace,
Or is a witness prying?

But, choking out loud from the heavy weight
Of swelling, the spongy soil widens,
And heard far away, as in August late,
The harvest of midnight ripens.

No sound. No one spying. Upon the proof
Of emptiness, it is keeping
To its old tricks — tumbling down the roof,
And over the edge, and dripping.

I’ll give it my lips, and I will then be
All ears: am I sole still, crying
Whenever my chance is, liberally,
Or is a witness prying?

But silence. No leaf makes a move. There is
No light, only those horrifying
Loud gulps and the flip-flops of splashes, with
The pauses for tears and for sighing.

Translated by Evgenia Sarkisyants