Pasternak Time: “Cities stained with gold”
Cities stained with gold,
Their streets rife with snowy walkers,
Their apartments edged with extra masterpieces.
Their promises increase with youth.
The promises of cities –
Vast as the shifting panorama,
Qualified by insistent commitments,
Oblique in their midlife directions –
Prove transitory, youth itself.
Someone should lighten up,
Turn crude surface into gold,
Take that choice even then inevitable,
Make the hard decision.
Not that the revolution would win,
No one said that,
No one said that then.
The revolution came into the cities,
Came with its own youthful ways,
With its speeches and kitchen cabinets,
With its own desolations.