Here you will find the Poem Music of poet Boris Pasternak
The block of flats loomed towerlike. Two sweating athletes, human telpher, Were carrying up narrow stairs, As though a bell onto a belfry, As to a stony tableland The tables of the law, with caution, A huge and heavy concert-grand, Above the city's restless ocean. At last it stands on solid ground, While deep below the din and clatter Are damped, as though the town were drowned- Sunk to the bottom of a legend. The tenant of the topmost flat Looks down on earth over the railings, As if he held it in his hand, Its lawful ruler, never failing. Back in the drawing room he starts To play-not someone else's music, But his own thought, a new chorale, The stir of leaves, Hosannas booming. Improvisations sweep and peal, Bring night, flames, fire barrels rolling, Trees under downpour, rumbling wheels, Life of the streets, fate of the lonely? Thus Chopin would, at night, instead Of the outgrown, naive and artless, Write down on the black fretwork stand His soaring dream, his new departures. Or, overtaking in their flight The world by many generations, Valkyries shake the city roofs By thunderous reverberations. Or through the lovers' tragic fate, Amidst infernal crash and thunder, Tchaikovsky harrowed us to tears, And rent the concert hall asunder.
