Boris Pasternak (10 February 1890 – 30 May 1960 / Moscow)

February. Take ink and weep,
write February as you’re sobbing,
while black Spring burns deep
through the slush and throbbing.


Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks,
through bell-towers’ and wheel noise,
go where the rain-storm’s din breaks,
greater than crying or ink employs.


Where rooks in thousands falling,
like charred pears from the skies,
drop down into puddles, bringing
cold grief to the depths of eyes.


Below, the black shows through,
and the wind’s furrowed with cries:
the more freely, the more truly
then, sobbing verse is realised.