By Boris Pasternak
Now every time that I hear distant polkas,
It's like I'm staring right into a keyhole:
Chairs pushed together and lamps are blown out,
Wicks flicker upwards, alike little bees, -
Dressed-up folks move in a beehive of masks,
And at last, through the crack, they've ignited the fir tree.
Grandeur beyond the collectivized powers
Of all the sepias, bleaches, mascaras,
Of all the golds, all the azures, and garnets,
Flappers and lionesses, lions and dancers,
Songs of the doors, and the flutter of blouses,
Roaring of toddlers, laughter of mothers,
Date fruits and books, endless games and nougats,
Needles, flights, horseraces borne by small rugs.
And in this taiga - so ominous, sweet -
Humans and objects are perched on keeled feet.
Rich citrus candy that sprouts from this grove
People rip into with hats mixing off.
Feasting gets stuffy. The Christmas tree sweats,
Drinking up darkness with glue, lacquer-wet.
She has streamed everyone, all are well-tossed,
She's made of metal and she's made of glass.
Sparkles the pig fat and sap shimmers full
Of every star mirrors flash through the hall,
Soon burnt away, so that darkness now shrouds
Guests leaving tables in slow weary crowds.
Shawls and tall boots and refined overhoods.
Always get shoved somewhere, ages to find.
Shutters and gates, latch the door with a hook,
On the top floor leave a window gaped wide.
Blue sudden fright of the wintery street,
Hour's preceding the third rooster shout.
And through the window frame suddenly beats
Ghost of the wind draft, each flame blowing out,
Candle to candle, quite audibly whoosh:
Phoosh. Phoosh. Phoosh. Phoosh.
- 1941