Winter Night By Boris Pasternak

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