I have died, but you are still among the living.
And the wind, keening and complaining,
Makes the country house and forest rock –
Not each pine by itself
But all the trees as one,
Together with the illimitable distance;
It makes them rock as the hulls of sailboats
Rock on the mirrorous waters of a boat basin.
And this the wind does not out of bravado
Or in a senseless rage,
But so that in its desolation
It may find words to fashion a lullaby for you.
Translated by Yakov Hornstein
“The Poems of Yuri Zhivago” from the novel, Doctor Zhivago
Boris Leonidovich Pasternak (1890-1960)