PETERSBURG Boris Pasternak

How to put a second bullet in the bullet
Or they bet on a candle,
So this rush of shores and streets
Peter discharged without a misfire.

Oh, how great it was! As a mesh of convulsions
Iron cheeks were covered,
When Petrov's eyes were full,
Removing them, the bays in sedge!


And to the throat the Baltic waves like clods
Yearning, rolled up; When they
Oblivion was in control; When he introduced
With the empire the kingdom, the edge with the edge.

There is no time for inspiration. The swamp,
The earth, or the sea, or a puddle, -
I have a dream here, and scores
I'll be with him now and then.

He was inundated with clouds.
In the bad weather a tight sail
One hundred draft bristles
The royal rage was cut.

In the doorway, over the Neva, on the clock, haidukami,
Centuries devouring, stood
Tapestries of insomnia in a fever din
Rubanks, tackles and squeaks.

And they knew: there will be no reception. Neither are they,
No uncle, no bar, no slave.
While he has a drawing subframe
The taiga swamps are worn.



Waves are pounded. Footbridge.
Partly cloudy. The sky above the buoy, flooded
Muddy, interfere with crushed graphite
Narrow whistles steam clubs.

A cloudy day lost the boats.
Tackles are strong, like a smashed knaster.
The smoke and the docks smell of bad weather
And cucumbers - bark bark.

From the March clouds fly sails
On the surface, wet with flakes in the slush,
They melt in the canals of the Baltic slag,
Smolder along the black tracks of the wheel.

Partly cloudy. Click the boat block.
The wharfs are hitting their icy hands.
Caving the cobblestone, the horse
Deeply enters the wet sand.


Drawing drawer
Rider of Copper
From the rider - the wind
Moray inherited.

Channels for profits,
The Neva arrives.
He is a northern neckline
He puts the trams on.


Try it, lie down
Under a cloud of gray,
Here they jump in practice
Over the barriers.

And they see the outskirts:
For Narva, on Okhta,
The fog is wrenching,
Torn off with a fingernail.

Peter waved his hat at them,
And splashes, like prapor,
Purga scratched,
A snatched report.

Citizens, who it is,
And who on the grief
Disbanded in the wind
A panel of buildings?

Like a plan, like a landmark
On dense papyrus,
He is a city above March
He threw it and threw it away.



Clouds, like hair, stood on end
Over the smoky, pale Neva.
Who are you? Oh, who are you? Whoever you are,
The city is your fiction.




The streets are torn, like thoughts, to the harbor
The Black River manifests.
No, in the grave is deaf and in the shroud
You did not find a place for yourself.



Will flood can not keep piles.
Speech them like a brush of blind midwives.
It's because you're delirious, insane,
Quickly mutter aloud.

1915