A poem by Boris Pasternak (translated by Burton Raffel)
They’re quiet. I mount the stage
Leaning on an open door
I strain at an echo, far off,
Hunting at what the future is for.
The rim of night shines back at me
From a thousand peering glassses.
If you can, Abba, Father,
Let this cup be passed
Away from me. I adore your stubborn plan,
I will smile and read the lines.
But tonight it’s a different script
So excuse me, please, this time.
Yet scene must follow scene, the road
Goes where it goes. I’m alone, everything
Drowns in a pious show:
Life is no casual stroll.