A Poem By Boris Pasternak
All the world’s still wrapped in gloom. At such an early hour How many stars - no man can know, And each like daylight is aglow, And could it choose, then all the globe Might well have slept all Easter through To the chant of psalm and prayer.
Still all the world is wrapped in gloom. An age must pass till early dawn. Eternally the square has lain, Outstretched to the crossing of the roads. Before the light and warmth return Must pass a whole millennium.
The earth lies there, exposed, laid bare, Bereft of its attire For swinging bells in empty air In echo to the choir.
And from Maundy Thursday through Till Holy Saturday Water eddies swirl and scoop And etch the banks away.
The woodland too is stripped and bare, And now, during Christ’s Passion, Like solemn worshippers at prayer, The pine trees pay attention.
And in a lesser space, in town, As at a public meeting, The naked trees all stand and strain To peer through churchyard railings.
Their gaze is stricken with dismay. There’s reason for such terror - As gardens flood and fencing breaks And all the earth’s foundations quake, A God is being buried.
Then light gleams within the altar gates, Black scarves and candles are held ready, And tear-stained faces look about, To welcome the procession. And as they carry forth the Shroud, Two birches at the entrance Are forced to yield and bow them out.
They all process around the church, Then back along the pavement, Bringing spring and springtime talk From open road onto the porch, With a heady vernal air And breath of communion wafers.
March throws a scattering of snow To the cripples on the portico, As if somebody brought forth A reliquary and disposed of All down to the final thread.
The singing lasts until the dawn. And now that every tear is spent, The Apostles and the Psalms Exit and depart, now calm, Through lamp-lit emptiness.
At midnight man and beast fall dumb On hearing springtime’s revelation: Once weather clears, then just as soon Can death itself be overcome By the power of Resurrection.
This poem is a new translation by Christopher Barnes taken from the Toronto Slavic Quarterly