Winter. The sunset, a woodsman
In the forest of hours. I lie down waiting
For dusk. And now we call out to each other, back and forth.

But the night, the night--it is a torture chamber!
If only you knew--if only something
Would bring you here. Night is your step, your wedding,
Your wedding night, heavier than a court's proceeding!

Do you remember life? The snowflakes
A magic carpet , sleds and crystals!
Life was a fire, blood gushing
Up to the crimson cloud lashed by the storm.

Frost. Night at the window, looking,
As is its practice, after the ice thickening.
Wrapped in furs, curled in a roomy armchair,
A spirit purrs away, a pure monotony.

But his lips! Bitten till they bleed.
He's trembling, his face locked in his hands.
That chalk-white face, those gestures augur
A storm of wonder for the storyteller.

But at night how they clamor, how thirsty....

---Boris Pasternak