By Boris Pasternak
Today at morning they will rise up,
Who were the children yesterday.
With swords of new calls there will be tied
The curve of hiplines, strictly set.
As soon as a tatar's cry resounds
Over the courtyard far as well, -
They'll glance behind the mileage known
Of way, familiar to them.
They'll recognize that orphan's rainfall,
That bluish and dove-coloured rain,
And that horizon of the town
With theatres and posts, and shambles.
Where all the signs are stamps of a man's foot,
Which is forwards turned, no way to back.
They'll hear: that's the start, the clear clue,
Example given - they're the next.
And both are now obliged to go
Along that way in a whole ever,
As if with rasp, with the blue oils,
As if across the ford together.
1913, 1928
Сегодня с первым утром... - пер. Б. Пастернака
© Copyright: Людмила 31, 2012
Свидетельство о публикации №112121508016
Свидетельство о публикации №112121508016
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