YOU’RE HERE
You’re here. We breathe the selfsame air.
Your presence here is like the city,
like quiet Kiev wrapped in sultry
sunbeams there outside the window.
It hasn’t slept its sleep out yet,
but strugglers in its dreams, unconquered.
It tears the bricks from off its neck
like a sweaty Shantung collar.
In it, perspiring in their leaves
from obstacles they’ve just got over,
the poplars gather in a a crowd
wearily on the conquered pavement.
You make me think the Dnieper there,
in its green skin of creeks and ditches
the centre-of-the-earth’s complaint book
for us to write our daily notes in.
Your presence here is like a call
to sit down hastily at midday,
to read it through from A to Z
and then to write your nearness in it.
                         Boris Pasternak                (tradução de J. M. Cowen)
   

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