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.

Missolonghi
In English, the Greek Kalinihita (?a?????ta means Good Night

I won't be by you,
Kalinihita,
the lines of your palm.
I'm too heavy, my girl,
and you - a light one.
Let you pass smoothly
through all the doors
on the shoulders of everybody
let you step.
Like a sound of a love
romance
to pass by.
I'm heavy, heavy, my girl
and my shadow is white.
And you can see
chromatic
and to croon you can
only to the wind.
Where shall I stay
without disturbing.
Your dream.



In English, the Greek Kalinihita (?a?????ta means Good Night
Missolonghi
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_Byron

The man who sits at the edge
of the water
shares the bread
(for you and to the birds).
Familiar with the dream far ago.
He can count when
the lime blossoms crumble
(someone passes to some place
and love is the longest point).
Entire.

Then (i look) it is
maestoso.

Some day I will stay at that house
(rather I will be sat) that I dream of
to realize how the air was born. Then,
(now I am sleeping on my wrist)
as never before I will manage without asking
about roads and
I will
pass
on the stretched rope
between
two horizons

land

what shall I tell them

it hurts me
for the ones
and for the others
(for you
and for you
for all of you)
who have land
who have no land
who look for land
red
red
red

what shall I tell them


земя

какво да кажа

какво да им кажа
боли ме
за едните
за другите
(за теб
и теб
за вас)
които имат земя
които нямат земя
които търсят земя
червена
червена
червена

какво да им кажа


земля


что сказать
что им сказать
больно
для одних
для других
(для тебя
и тебя
для вас)
которые имеют землю
которые не имеют землю
которые ищут землю
красная
красная
красная

что им сказать

I write –
on autumn leaves,
when the sun is
alive
The grass
is still
fragrant.
And you are a dream which
I won’t
tell about.
My eyes are collecting colorful rains.
As in the mad years,
when
I ran with a cloth
to bandage the light.
The wings have left
and the golden sparkles which
you are writing with today,
without even knowing…

A shed
feather of Fujiyama .

already
my look is calm

a luxurious orange
nail
on
the table

the world is going to turn around in
- a breath

will come
will give

salep*
for white heart

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salep

If I call
who of the angels
would hear me.
Whether one of them suddenly
would open up his heart.

The Big Shore
K. White



Like the grass called by the edge
of the scythe,
with a face, fixed into the black soil,
with lungs full of mud
and wind…
When I do not have cry.
Who of the angels
would hear me.
When I am an echo in the mountain
and my strength is a reflection
of some evening snow.
Whether one of them suddenly
would reveal his heart.
For that one who abandoned
his one
for a spring
in the desert.
He gave away his eyes to
the jackals,
and his fingers to the vultures.
And that one who has nothing for
giving away…

He gives away the Heaven.

"Go to the pine if you want to learn about pine"
Matsuo Bashō

How long is falling the autumn
leaf
torn of the too long
summer.
And in the high pines
with their bodies defending
the sky against
the earth
the steel edge of the winter
is breaking in two.
Both you
and me
toss both
the time and
the wind
in pines propped up
back to
back.

And the pines recognized us.

This is Love.
Words
(with no caress).
Caress
(with no fingers).

Surely because of that
the worlds dangle on your ears.

With its death
the day gilds
the leaves.
I do not know the names of
the tree
and it doesn’t matter for
beauty.