B.Pasternak, Winter - 2 Variants Of Translation (Rus.) Poem by Lyudmila Purgina

I'm pressing my cheek to the whirl
Of winter, as a snail curled.
'Take your place, who's opposite - aside go! '
Noises-rustles, thunder of roar.

'You say - in 'the sea is waving'? Into a tale,
Frizzling in a plait.
Where they would take their turn, unprepaired?
So - into the life? So - into the tale

About the unexpected end? About a fun, a laugh,
A hubbub, a running about and over?
You say - the sea is really waving and gets quiet
Without any notion of the moment? '

Is it a buzz of a shell?
The gossips of the rooms-the quiet-sites?
Is it a fire rattling with a door of an oven,
With his shadow quarreling, right?

And there're the gazes of the air-vents going up
And looking around - then go crying.
With a black click of the coaches in a cloud
There a dashing horseman's riding.

And there the unweeded snowdrifts
Crawl onto the window pedestal.
Say, having a little glass of vitriol,
Nothing there were and exists, ever all.


1913,1928


- -
Winter
by Boris Pasternak

I'm pressing my cheek to a crator
Of the scrolled, as a snail, winter.
'Take your places, who don't wish - aside go! '
The crash and clatter, thunder of vanity.

'So 'in sea there's the waving'? - To narrate this,
As a story, curling as a tight plait,
Where they enter the scene without preparing?
So - to life? So - insert that to a tale,

Where's the end of an accident? Elsemore
All about the laughter and hubbub?
So - ain't the sea is suddenly roaring
And calms down, besides the day's mark? '

Isn't that a buzz of a mere shell,
Or the gossips of the meek rooms?
Or it may be the quarrel with a shadow
Of fire, who shakes the stove door?

All the sighs of the outlets rise up
And look around - then into tears burst.
Cut with a black snort of coaches, far there
A reckless driver in a white cloud is galloping.

And the unweeded snowdrifts are creeping
Over the window's parapet.
Behind the glasses of a cuprum vitriol
Nothing and nothing is seen, as yet.

1913,1928