‘like A Brazier’s Bronze Cinders,’ Poem by Boris Pasternak
‘like A Brazier’s Bronze Cinders,’
Like a brazier’s bronze cinders,
the sleepy garden’s beetles flowing.
Level with me, and my candle,
a flowering world is hanging.
As if into unprecedented faith,
I cross into this night,
where the poplar’s beaten grey
veils the moon’s rim from sight.
Where the pond’s an open secret,
where apple-trees whisper of waves,
where the garden hanging on piles,
holds the sky before its face.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 5:01:18 PM # 1.0.0.1119
