No one will be in the house
But twilight. Just the same
Winter day in the gap
The gathered curtains frame.
Only swiftly beating wings
Of white flakes as they fall.
Only roofs and snow, and but
For roofs and snow – no one at all.
And frost again will start too sketch.
And I again will find despairs
Of last year whirling me back
To another winter's affairs.
And they again will sting me
With last year's guilt, the same,
Unexpiated. Lack of wood
Will cramp the window-frame.
Then suddenly the curtain
Will shudder at the door
And you will come in, like the future,
Making no sound on the floor.
And you will stand there wearing
Something white, no lace, no braid,
Something made from the fabric
From which snowflakes are made.
by Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к
(Boris Leonidovich Pasternak)
translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
Poor poet, was that really you,
addressing the moon in rhyme?
My eyes were dulled so long ago
by love, by cards and wine.
The moon climbs through the window frame.
White light, so white it blinds you…
I bet on the Queen of Spades,
but I played the Ace of Diamonds.
by Сергей Александрович Есенин (Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin)
a.k.a. Sergey Yesenin / Esenin
translated by Boris Dralyuk