Б. Пастернак Не плачь, не морщь опухших губ... Пер

Don’t cry, don’t wince your swollen lips,
Don’t fold them in your shiver,
You’d bother old adherent scab
Of weathered spring fever.

Now take your hand of off my chest:
We are high voltage wires.
We’re risking to be swiftly cast
Into each others' fires.

You will get married, as years pass,
You will forget your sadness.
Being a woman is one great task;
Heroic — to cause madness.

With servant's loyalty in awe
I will continue praising
The woman's beauty in her law
Of neck, and waist, and shoulders.

How ever night would chain me
In its saddest temptation
The stronger urge will push to leave,
The urge for separation.

Boris Pasternak (translation by Alina Kireeva/Kang )