Winked to the birdcherry, gulped amid tears,
by Boris Pasternak
Splashed over carriages' varnish, trees' tremble.
Full moon. The musicians are picking their way
To the theatre. More and more people assemble.
Puddles on stone. Like a throat overfilled
With tears are the roses, deep with wet scalding
Diamonds. Showers of gladness thrill,
Eyelashes, stormclouds, and roses enfolding.
The moon for the first time is casting in plaster
An epic poem uncast till today:
The cordons, the flutter of dresses, the speaker
And people enraptured and carried away.
Whose is the heart whose whole blood shot to glory
Drained from the cheeks? We are held in his grip.
The hands of Kerensky are squeezing together
Into a bunch our aortas and lips.
This is not night, not rain, not a chorus
Of tearing acclaim for him, swelled to a roar-
This is the blinding leap to the Forum
From catacombs wanting an exit before.
It is not roses, not Ups, not the roaring
Crowd-it's the surf on Theatre Square,
Marking the end of the long sleep of Europe,
Proud of her own reawakening here.