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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=352799" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Your Picture</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's with your laughing picture that I'm living now, <br>You whose wrists are so slender and crackle at the joints, <br>You who wring your hands yet are unwilling to go, <br>You whose guests stay for hours sharing sadness and joys. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You who'll run from the cards and Rakoczy bravura, <br>From the glass of the drawing-room and from the guests <br>To the keyboard on fire, unable to endure <br>Bones and roses and dice and rosettes and the rest. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You will fluff up your hair, and a reckless tea-rose, <br>Smelling of cigarettes, pin to your bright-red sash, <br>And then waltz to your glory, your sadness and woes <br>Tossing off like a scarf, beaming, breathless and flushed. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You will crumple the skin of an orange and swallow <br>Cooling morsels again and again in your haste <br>To return to the hall, to the whirling and mellow <br>Lights, and air with the sweet sweat of fresh waltzes laced. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Defying steam and scorching breath <br>The way a whirlwind dies, <br>The way a murid faces death <br>With wide unflinching eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Know all: not mountains' noise and hush, <br>And not a purebred steed-<br>The reckless roses in your sash <br>Are riding at full speed. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No, not the clatter of the hoofs <br>And not the mountains' hush, <br>But only she who stands aloof <br>With flowers in her sash. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And only that is really It <br>What makes our ears ring, <br>And what the whirlwind-chasing feet, <br>Soul, tulle and silk sash bring. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Until sides split the jokes are cracked, <br>We're rolling in the aisles, <br>The envy of the romping sacks- <br>Until somebody cries.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Boris+Pasternak">Boris Pasternak</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=352799" data-title="Your Picture de Boris Pasternak" data-description="It's with your laughing picture that I'm living now, 
You whose wrists are so slender and crackle at the joints, 
You who wring your hands yet are unwilling to go, 
You whose guests stay for hours sharing sadness and joys. 

You who'll run from th..."></div>
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