Here will be echoes in the mountains, <br />The distant landslides' rumbling boom, <br />The rocks, the dwellings in the village, <br />The sorry little inn, the gloom <br /> <br />Of something black beyond the Terek, <br />Clouds moving heavily. Up there <br />The day was breaking very slowly; <br />It dawned, but light was nowhere near. <br /> <br />One sensed the heaviness of darkness <br />For miles ahead around Kazbek <br />Wound on the heights: though some were trying <br />To throw the halter from their neck. <br /> <br />As if cemented in an oven, <br />In the strange substance of a dream, <br />A pot of poisoned food, the region <br />Of Daghestan there slowly steamed. <br /> <br />Its towering peaks towards us rolling, <br />All black from top to foot, it strained <br />To meet our car, if not with clashing <br />Of daggers, then with pouring rain. <br /> <br />The mountains were preparing trouble. <br />The handsome giants, fierce and black, <br />Each one more evil than the other <br />Were closing down upon our track.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/here-will-be-echoes-in-the-mountains/
