The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
Will my funeral start out from our courtyard?How will you get me down from the third floor?The coffin won’t fit in the elevator,and the stairs are awfully narrow. Maybe there’ll be sun knee-deep in the yard, and pigeons,maybe snow filled…
1Berlin is bright and sunny.March 8, 1963.On the phone this morningI forgot to wish you a happy holiday.When I hear your voice, I forget the world. Many happy returns, my beauty. 8 March 1963 2In four days I’ll be in…
I’m getting used to growing old,the hardest art in the world—knocking on doors for the last time,endless separation.The hours run and run and run . . .I want to understand at the cost of losing faith.I tried to tell you…
I stepped out of my thoughts of death and put on the June leaves of the boulevards those of May after all were too young for mea whole summer waits for me a city summer with its hot stones and…
he was stone bronze plaster and paper anywhere from twocentimeters to seven meters in all the city squares we were under his stone bronze plaster and paper boots in parks his stone bronze plaster and paper shadow darkenedour trees his…
to Vera Tulyakova, with my deep respect Iat dawn the express entered the station unannouncedit was covered with snowI stood on the platform my coat collar raisedthe platform was emptya sleeper window stopped in front of meits curtains were parteda…
the chairs are asleep on their feet the same as the tablethe rug lies stretched out on its back clutching its designthe mirror is sleepingthe eyes of the windows are closed tightthe balcony sleeps with its legs dangling over the…
My woman came with me as far as Brest,she got off the train and stayed on the platform,she grew smaller and smaller,she became a kernel of wheat in the infinite blue,then all I could see were the tracks. Then she…
to Ekber BabayevThe snow is knee-deep in the courtyard and still coming down hard:it hasn’t let up all morning.We’re in the kitchen.On the table, on the oilcloth, spring—on the table there’s a very tender young cucumber, pebbly and fresh as…
Reaching down to the starless heavy seain the pitch-black night,Baku is a sunny wheatfield.High above on a hill,grains of light hit my face by the handfuls,and the music in the air flows like the Bosporus.High above on a hill,my heart…