From Donétz, from fire, from hell,
Under the grey running bark of the tree
Of clouds, of rains, of soldiers we fell
Amid councils, verses, discussions
Of art and of transport in Russia.
We have been people. Epochs we are.
Knocked down, sped past in a caravan guise,
Like tundra, to sight of the tender car,
To the flight of the piston and ties.
We shall circle and startle and whirl,
We shall flock in a ravenous whirl -
And pass! You'll take long to abate:
Thus, striking a straw heap by morning,
Traces of wind still live the debate
Adjourned without warning
To an assembly of trees, in the hatching
Of stormy proceedings over the thatching.
Boris Pasternak in Russian Poets
