The picture of the "Provincial twilight"

Nobody is in the house
The twilight. One
Winter day in the opening
Open curtains.

Only white wet clods
Quick promelec moss,
Only the roof, snow, and, except
Roofs and snow anybody.

And again sacastic frost,
And again Volodina me
Last year's gloom
And the memories of another winter.

And again prick to this day
Not released fault
And the window on the d-pad
Surrendering hunger wood.

But suddenly the curtain
Run doubt the creeps-
Measuring the silence.
You, as a future, will enter.

You'll be out the door
Something white and simple,
Something, indeed from those matters,
Of which they make snow flakes.

Boris Pasternak