Swifts (2)
At twilight the swifts have no power,
to hold back that pale blue coolness.
It bursts from throats, a clamour
an outpour that can-t grow less.
The swifts have no way, high
up there, overhead, of restraining
their clarion cries: -O, triumph,
see, see, how the earth-s receding!-
Like steam from a boiling kettle,
the furious flow rushes by -
-See, see - no space for the earth
between the ravine and the sky.-
Boris Pasternak
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