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The Earth finds support
in some springs.
But you do not pronounce
the words,
when
paths utter into me,
love of sounds splits
and the sacrament on hills
and on leaves roars.
And I summon horizons
with all my tenderness,
blaze and prayer…

Beyond the thought
that brings death.
Tuck the shadows
of the old statues
(they stay quiet when you
speak to them).
And step between the boulders
which the water dragged up
this spring.
One thought almost caught
and it opened up
like a trout in the reef.
The movement inwards.
The movement outwards.
And the children throw
Flowers in the lake.

It’s so wonderful!
already
my look is calm

a luxurious orange
nail
on
the table

the world is going to turn around in
- a breath
At some unnamed night,
and it will be bright,
I’ll go away.
The door I will never
close
the flowers will keep
fragrance.
My children will have fallen asleep
the most deeply
covered and caressed
and somebody will cant to them again
a cradle song.
It will be light like in a temple
and clear like a voice
in mountains.
Then I’ll leave
forgotten all the words…

A branch in the white snow.
i am dreaming
but someone is laying bricks
around my dream
wells
he is rising houses
drawing roads and people
unfolding some wind
above plane-trees
and above hills rounded

and bridges
to other dreams
Just that has left.
The dust of words.
The crumbly August.
The tears.
The rose among the leaves.
And my life,

that you didn't read...


Само това остана.
Прахта на думи.
Ронливият август.
Сълзите.
Розата между листите.
И животът ми,

който не прочете. ...


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
See
They speak at length about the moral.
But I know the pigeon
and its custom
to alight on the shoulders
of the children,
on the palms of enamored,
to sleep
under the roof of Notre Dame.
They speak at length like a wind
in the gutter.
And we are the Sunday bells.

See, the pigeon – dear.
See, the pigeon.


Виж

Говорят дълго за морала.
А аз познавам гълъба
и неговия обичай
да каца на раменете
на децата,
на дланите на влюбените,
да спи
под покрива на Нотр Дам.
Говорят дълго като вятър
във улука.
А ние сме неделните камбани.

Виж, гълъба – мила.
Виж, гълъба.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
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