by Boris Pasternak
Steam from a cup of cocoa floods the mirror,
the sheer curtains stretch and yawn.
Down the straight path, past storms and chaos,
the mirror runs towards the swings.
There pines toss, impregnating the air
with resin, and the garden
scatters its eyeglasses in the grass
where shadows read a book.
Toward the gate, toward dusk in the steppes,
toward the heavy odor of drugged air,
hot quartz shimmers and flows over the road
laced with snails and branches.
The huge garden wrestles in the room, in the mirror,
but doesn't break the glass -
as though its collodion flowed above the dresser
to the noise of tree bark.
The mirrored tide glazes the world
with sweatless ice, knocking
bitterness into knots, smell into lilacs,
reigning through mesmerism.
The weird world walks in its sleep,
and only the wind can bind
what breaks into life, breaks in a prism,
and gladly plays in tears.
You can't blast the soul with saltpeter
or dig for it, like treasure.
The huge garden wrestles in the room, in the mirror
but doesn't break the glass.
In this rich hypnotic country
you can't blow out my eyes.
And after rain the slugs plug up
the eyes of garden statues.
Water murmurs in the ears, the pine siskin
shree and tiptoe daintily.
Go, smear their lips with blueberries,
they're blind to your mischief.
The huge garden wrestles in the room,
shakes its fist at the mirror,
runs to the swings, grabs, muddies them,
but doesn't break the glass!
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