It-s terrible! - all drip and listening.
Whether, as ever, it-s loneliness,
splashing a branch, like lace, on the window,
or whether perhaps there-s a witness.
Choked there beneath its swollen
burden - earth-s nostrils, and audibly,
like August, far off in the distance,
midnight, ripening slow with the fields.
No sound. No one-s in hiding.
Confirming its pure desolation,
it returns to its game - slipping
from roof, to gutter, slides on.
I-ll moisten my lips, listening:
whether, as ever, I-m loneliness,
and ready maybe for weeping,
or whether perhaps there-s a witness.
But, silence. No leaves trembling.
Nothing to see: sobs, and cries
being swallowed, slippers splashing,
between them, tears and sighs.
The Weeping Garden
Boris Pasternak
(1)
Poem topics: august, silence, earth, ready, roof, pure, terrible, game, slow, beneath, branch, sound, window, distance, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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