---

Boris Pasternak - I hang limp on the Creator`s pen
Work rating: Low

I hang limp on the Creator`s pen
Like a large drop of lilac gloss-paint.

Underneath are dykes` secrets; the air
From the railways is sodden and sticky,
Of the fumes of coal and night fires reeking.
But the moment night kills sunset`s glare,
It turns pink itself, tinged with far flares,
And the fence stands stiff, paradox-stricken.

It keeps muttering: stop it till dawn.
Let the dry whiting finally settle.
Hard as nails is the worm-eaten ground,
And the echo`s as keen as a skittle.

Warm spring wind, spots of cheviot and mud,
Early naileries` hoots faraway,
On the grater of cobble-stones road,
As on radishes lavishly sprayed,
Tears stand out clearly at break of day.

Like an acrid drop of thick lead paint,
I hang on to the Creator`s pen.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.