‘like A Brazier’s Bronze Cinders,’
B Boris Pasternak
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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.
Bu metin şairin özgün dilinde (Rusça) değil, bir çeviridir.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş