Boris Pasternak

They gave him a bed by the entrance
Of the surfeited hospital’s wing,
A drought blew on him every instant,
With air and with smell of iodine.

The window was a background – 
The sky and the garden in parts. 
The novice was watching, around,
The coats, the floors and the wards.

When, lo!, from the nurses’ fast questions,
(Was shaking with her head a while), 
He learned that he hasn’t any chances
To go this place out alive.

Then he, very thankful, looked out 
The window, where a high wall,
Was lit up by glare of the town,
As if by the sparks of star-falls.

There was the red suburb; and boughs,
Of trees in red glare that swells,
Were making the sorrow bows,
Like trying to say farewell.

“O, Lord! How perfect and dipped
Your works” thought the man to the sight,
“The beds, and the walls, and the people,
The death and the city in night.

I’ve had sleeping tablets and here
I weep, plucking my cambric through. 
O God, the emotional tear
Prevent me from looking at You.

It’s nice, when dim light has been stolen
To my deathly bed’s whitened sheets,
To know that I and my dole
Are Your irreplaceable gift.

And dying in this clinic’s section,
I feel the blessed warmth of your hands.
You’re holding me – your craft’s creation,
And carrying – your ring – to your case."


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001