It is not seemly to be famous
Celebrity does not exalt
It's mere success when you're empty
And on everyone's lips

There is no need to hoard your writings
And preserve secrets that might matter
Give everything, that is creation
Not diminution, definition, obscurity

Never mind your own conceits
Manage affairs so as to be loved
By wide expanses and to hear
The sound of future years

There are always blanks in life
Feel free to pencil out
Whole states and continents
Of your existence and fate

Preparing to disappear
Is a chance to grow and to shut up
Autumn's early morning mist
Covers Earth as far as anyone can see

Another dreamer will follow
The living imprint of your feet
You yourself have no right
To name the trees you planted

Boris Pasternak 1890-1960

Photo by Leonid Andreyev

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