Boris Pasternak (10 February 1890 - 30 May 1960 / Moscow)
The murmurs ebb; onto the stage I enter.
I am trying, standing in the door,
To discover in the distant echoes
What the coming years may hold in store.
The nocturnal darkness with a thousand
Binoculars is focused onto me.
Take away this cup, O Abba Father,
Everything is possible to Thee.
I am fond of this Thy stubborn project,
And to play my part I am content.
But another drama is in progress,
And, this once, O let me be exempt.
But the plan of action is determined,
And the end irrevocably sealed.
I am alone; all round me drowns in falsehood:
Life is not a walk across a field.
Poet Other Poems
- ‘February. Take ink and weep,’
- ‘Like a brazier’s bronze cinders,’
- ‘My sister – Life’s overflowing today’
- A Dream
- A Sultrier Dawn
- A tall, strapping shot, you, considerate...
- A Walts With a Tear in It
- About These Poems
- After the Interval
- After The Storm
- Autumn Frost
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.