I hang limp on the Creator's pen <br />Like a large drop of lilac gloss-paint. <br /> <br />Underneath are dykes' secrets; the air <br />From the railways is sodden and sticky, <br />Of the fumes of coal and night fires reeking. <br />But the moment night kills sunset's glare, <br />It turns pink itself, tinged with far flares, <br />And the fence stands stiff, paradox-stricken. <br /> <br />It keeps muttering: stop it till dawn. <br />Let the dry whiting finally settle. <br />Hard as nails is the worm-eaten ground, <br />And the echo's as keen as a skittle. <br /> <br />Warm spring wind, spots of cheviot and mud, <br />Early naileries' hoots faraway, <br />On the grater of cobble-stones road, <br />As on radishes lavishly sprayed, <br />Tears stand out clearly at break of day. <br /> <br />Like an acrid drop of thick lead paint, <br />I hang on to the Creator's pen.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-hang-limp-on-the-creator-s-pen/
