Boris Pasternak


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A click of window glass had roused me
Out of my sleep at early dawn.
Beneath me Venice swam in water;
A sodden pretzel made of stone.

I was all quiet now; however,
While still asleep, I heard a cry -
And like a sign that had been silenced
It still disturbed the morning sky.

It hung - a trident of the Scorpion -
Above the sleeping mandolins
And had been uttered by an angry
Insulted woman's voice, maybe.

Now it was silent. To the handle
Its fork was stuck in morning haze.
The Grand Canal, obliquely grinning
Kept looking back - a runaway

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Reality was born of dream-shreds
Far off, among the hired boats.
Like a Venetian woman, Venice
Dived from the bank to glide afloat.

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