Olesya Fokina
Untitled series. Work 7. by Olesya Fokina  Image: Subconscious improvisation as my art movement. No one will be in the house But twilight. Just the same Winter day in the gap The gathered curtains frame. Only swiftly beating wings Of white flakes as they fall. Only roofs and snow, and but For roofs and snow — no one at all. And frost again will start too sketch. And I again will find despairs Of last year whirling me back To another winter’s affairs. And they again will sting me With last year’s guilt, the same, Unexpiated. Lack of wood Will cramp the window-frame. Then suddenly the curtain Will shudder at the door And you will come in, like the future, Making no sound on the floor. And you will stand there wearing Something white, no lace, no braid, Something made from the fabric From which snowflakes are made. (B. Pasternak, transl. by P. France & J. Stallworthy)
Subconscious improvisation as my art movement. No one will be in the house But twilight. Just the same Winter day in the gap The gathered curtains frame. Only swiftly beating wings Of white flakes as they fall. Only roofs and snow, and but For roofs and snow — no one at all. And frost again will start too sketch. And I again will find despairs Of last year whirling me back To another winter’s affairs. And they again will sting me With last year’s guilt, the same, Unexpiated. Lack of wood Will cramp the window-frame. Then suddenly the curtain Will shudder at the door And you will come in, like the future, Making no sound on the floor. And you will stand there wearing Something white, no lace, no braid, Something made from the fabric From which snowflakes are made. (B. Pasternak, transl. by P. France & J. Stallworthy)