Here you will find the Poem How few are we. Probably three... of poet Boris Pasternak
How few are we. Probably three In all-coallike, burning, infernal Beneath the grey bark of the tree Of wisdom, and clouds, and eternal Debate on verse, transport, the part The army will play-and on art. We used to be human. We're eras, We're trains, in a caravan ripping Through woods, to the sighing and fears Of engines, and groans of the sleepers. We'll rush in, and circle in the throes Of being, like a whirlwind of crows. A miss! Much too late you will see it. Thus galloping wind in the morning In passing a straw pile will buffet- The blow will live on as a warning To riotous tree-tops, and mingle With their wrangles over the shingles.