Vera Pavlova (II)

Wheels clatter, my fellow-traveller sleeps,
the way is long, distances are hazy…
Write. Otherwise one will not seem
to join in a turning-point of fate.
So, under dictation, letters to the wounded:
I love, I miss, I wait, it pains me
thus Pasternak, for illiterate gardens,
is thinking up an ABC.

Стучат колеса, спит попутчица,
путь долог, дали голубы…
Писать. Иначе не получится
вписаться в поворот судьбы.
Так, под диктовку, письма раненым:
люблю, скучаю, жду, болит,
так Пастернак садам неграмотным
придумывает алфавит.

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