It’s terrible! – all drip and listening. <br />Whether, as ever, it’s loneliness, <br />splashing a branch, like lace, on the window, <br />or whether perhaps there’s a witness. <br /> <br />Choked there beneath its swollen <br />burden – earth’s nostrils, and audibly, <br />like August, far off in the distance, <br />midnight, ripening slow with the fields. <br /> <br />No sound. No one’s in hiding. <br />Confirming its pure desolation, <br />it returns to its game – slipping <br />from roof, to gutter, slides on. <br /> <br />I’ll moisten my lips, listening: <br />whether, as ever, I’m loneliness, <br />and ready maybe for weeping, <br />or whether perhaps there’s a witness. <br /> <br />But, silence. No leaves trembling. <br />Nothing to see: sobs, and cries <br />being swallowed, slippers splashing, <br />between them, tears and sighs.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-weeping-garden/
