Winter Sky
Ice-chips plucked whole from the smoke,
the past week-s stars all frozen in flight,
Head over heels the skater-s club goes,
clinking its rink with the peal of night.
Step slow, slower, slow-er, skater,
pride carving its trace as you race by.
each turn-s a constellation cut there,
scratched by a skate in Norway-s sky.
The air is fettered in frozen iron.
Oh, skaters! There - it-s all the same,
that, like snake-s eyes set in ivory,
night-s on earth, a domino game:
that moon, a numb hound-s tongue
is there, frozen tight: that mouths like
the forgers of coins- - are stung,
filled with lava of breathtaking ice.
Boris Pasternak
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