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Poem

It was the snow over the earth
in every edge,
the candle burned on desk, of course,
it waited change.

Like summer midges in the swarm
that fly to fire,
the snowflakes flew from yard to warm
near window frame pyre.

The blizzard made some booms and balls
on glass of window,
the candle burned on desk, of course,
like lonely widow.

And all the shades were falling down
on painted ceiling,
Crosses of arms and legs and gown
of Fate and feeling.

Two shoes were falling on the floor
with knocking sound,
And wax tears from a night light's core
dripped on the dress and ground.

And everything was getting lost
with white-gray snowing,
the candle burned on desk, of course,
and it was glowing.

The candle was blown from the nook,
Seducing fever
was like an angel wings, their look
was like wild river.

All month snow February was
all night and, rather,
the candle burned on desk, of course,
and nothing other.

P.S. This is my translation of poem by Boris Pasternak

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