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Boris Pasternak - Swifts (2)
Work rating: Low

At twilight the swifts have no power,

to hold back that pale blue coolness.

It bursts from throats, a clamour

an outpour that can’t grow less.

 

The swifts have no way, high

up there, overhead, of restraining

their clarion cries: ‘O, triumph,

see, see, how the earth’s receding!’

 

Like steam from a boiling kettle,

the furious flow rushes by –

‘See, see – no space for the earth

between the ravine and the sky.’
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