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Saturday, February 10, 2018



I fed a flock
of keys from my hand
To the beating of wings, splashing and screeching.
I stretched out my hands, I stood on my toes,

My sleeve crept up, night rubbed my elbow.
And it was dark. And there was a pond
And waves.-And the screaming, black, strong beaks оf the birds
Оf the breed I-love-you would sooner murder, it seems, than die.

And there was a pond. And it was dark.
The vessels of midnight tar blazed.
And a wave bit into the bottom
Of the boat. And the birds squabbled at my elbow.

And night splashed in the throats of the weirs.
It seemed that the fledgling had not yet been fed,
And the mother birds would sooner murder than let
The trills in the screaming, twisted throat die.

Boris Pasternak.


February 10, 2018 | Permalink


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