Blurred by a lilac heat, the meadows: <br />in the wood, cathedral shadows swirled. <br />What on earth was left for them to kiss? So <br />like wax, soft in the fingers, theirs, the world. <br /> <br />There’s a dream – you do not sleep, you only <br />dream you long for sleep: someone’s dozing, <br />two black suns are beating under eyelids, <br />burning eyelashes, while he’s slumbering. <br /> <br /> <br />Sunbeams play. Iridescent beetles flow by, <br />dragon-flies’ glass skims over his cheek. <br />With tiny scintillations, the wood’s alive, <br />like those the clockmakers’ tweezers seek. <br /> <br />It seems he slept to the tick of figures, <br />while in acid, amber ether, over his head, <br />the hands of a carefully tested clock quiver, <br />regulated precisely by tremors of heat. <br /> <br />They calibrate, they shake the pines, <br />scatter the shadow, exhaust and pierce <br />the darkness of timber raised up high, <br />in the day’s fatigue, on the blue clock-face. <br /> <br />It seems a primal happiness was setting, <br />it seems the wood was sunk in sunlit dream. <br />Happy folk don’t spend time clock-watching, <br />but this pair were only sleeping, it seems.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-wood/
