from a fragment of Pasternak

It’s midday of the world. Where
are your eyes — reedbrown, lit
without sun, with clouds, with snow
white caught in the blond —
O how can the world be so quiet
so alive, yet still — what? waiting?
But for what, when clouds whisper,
when waves barely lap the shore,
when white-cheeked ducks dive
in the brutal black water as though
it were sky, blue, sunfilled, joy —
where are your eyes? It’s the midday
of the world — and everything is waiting.

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