"bulgarian" poems
The light toy-railway is traveling,
with the kids who aren’t anymore.
To Paris, to Brussels is traveling,
to the Black Africa too.
The light toy-railway is grieving,
for the fawn’s steps under Christmas tree,
for the luster in the eyes and
ah, for the toys.
For the Blue Bird, for the white photos,
for the hand that is putting the little star.
For the dream that’s coming true.
The light toy-railway is traveling.
Traveling.
The original:
Светлото влакче
Светлото влакче пътува,
с децата, които вече не са.
За Париж, Брюксел пътува,
за черната Африка.
Светлото влакче тъгува,
за стъпките на еленчето под елхата,
за блясъка във очите и
ах, за играчките.
За Синята птица, за белите снимки,
за ръката, която поставя звездичка.
За съня, който се сбъдва.
Пътува светлото влакче.
Пътува.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
Vania Konstantinova was born, lives and works in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published in autumn of 2008.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
With all the Homesickness of the Foreigner
"You'll present me one Paris
with all the homesickness of the foreigner"
Vania Konstantinova
He's looking for a job,
but has no shirt,
Rose,
and expectation even in the pocket.
Whether sometimes he doesn't bend
to look how the Seine passes slowly?
Whether it's cold
(that's an author's thought)?
In this circus gleam only
the blue glimmer of the knives
(which yesterday were pawned).
It's a French movie.
Paris is somewhat little
for one grief
and nothing.
Compared with your arm.
The original:
Ваня Константинова е родена, живее и работи в София. Завършила е класически балет в родния си град и в Петербург, а също и полска филология в Софийския университет и в Ягеловския университет в Краков. Съавтор е на поетичната книга “Четири цикъла” (заедно с Божидар Пангелов). През есента на 2008 излиза сборникът й с къси разкази “Благодарим ти, мистър Уан”.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
Със цялата тъга на чужденеца
"Ти ще ми подариш един Париж
със цялата тъга на чужденеца"
Ваня Константинова
Той търси работа,
а няма риза,
Роза,
и очакване дори във джоба.
Дали понякога не се привежда
да погледне как минава бавно Сена?
Дали е хладно
(тази мисъл е на автора)?
Във този цирк проблясват само
сините отблясъци на ножовете
(които вчера са заложени).
Това е френски филм.
Париж е малко
за една тъга
и нищо.
Пред ръката ти.
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 11:37 PM UTC
I know how to say
"I love you" in
English and French,
and Spanish and Italian,
and Russian and Bulgarian,
and Arabic and Dothraki
and High Valyrian,
and Klingon,
and in any other language
you ask,
I know how to
write "I love you"
in Gallifreyan and
Tengwar,
I know how to make up
a billion different poems
about my love for you.
But still, it won't make you
love me back. I somehow
was never enough for you.
You keep me awake every night
wondering why you left
and I think it's high time
I started looking up
how to say "I don't hate you",
"I've moved on", "I don't miss you"
and "I am okay" in all these
languages in which
"I love you" didn't matter.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
Sundays
in rains
forgotten fragrance
and those non-grown up dreams
for
her hand
Sunday rains
like a faraway
beyond
недели
недели
в дъждове
забравен мирис
и тези непораснали мечти
за
нейната ръка
недели в дъждове
като сбогуване
оттатък
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
May 27, 2011
May 27, 2011 at 3:10 AM UTC
This is a very special day in Bulgaria, my friends. Here - http://www.balkanfolk.com/news.php?id=23 - you can read more on it.
marigolds
marigolds
San Clemente*
and the sun that is
opening
we will lose ourselves
before they find us
in the eternal searching
for ourselves
(and the mind again
steps over us)
did you recognize the happiness
Ahasver**
marigolds
(like an epoch)
San Clemente
and I am bowing
The original:
невени
невени
Сан Клементе
и слънцето, което се
разтваря
ще се загубим
преди да ни намерят
във вечното си търсене
на себе си
(и мисълта отново ни
прекрачва)
позна ли щастието
Ахасфере
невени
(като епоха)
Сан Клементе
и се прекланям
*In one lateral chapel there is a shrine with the tomb of Saint Cyril of the
Saints Cyril and Methodius who created the Glagolitic alphabet and Christianized the Slavs.
**Wandering Jew; the name Ahasver is adapted from Ahasuerus the Persian king in Esther, who was not a Jew, and whose very name among medieval Jews was an exemplum of a fool
/from wikipedia/
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
May 23, 2011
May 23, 2011 at 11:34 PM UTC
crimson mistress
(crimson flower
in the swooning gloom)
tell me
why against thy sharp
prickle
(eyes of lynx)
my heart I’m pressing
(æt the nihtegale)*
and don’t understand that
freedom
(like the archetype of Moon)
of the kiss
with laughter devoted
in the broad gardens
---------------
*(with the nightingale)
The original:
***(тъмночервена господарке)
тъмночервена господарке
(тъмночервено цвете
във припадащия мрак)
кажи ми
защо във острия ти
шип
(очи на рис)
сърцето си притискам
(със славея)
и не разбирам тази
свобода
(както и архетипа на луната)
на целувката
със смях отдадена
в широките градини
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
Some day, maybe tomorrow
get ready to travel.
The flute is narrating streams.
The leaves are drawing rainbows lightly,
they are soaring in the rain,
nearly not leaving circles.
Travel, travel …
With your soul only
(it is a mute shadow).
With your love
(it has no shadow).
Keep the life,
like music, like rain,
like the blind one who stopped
The Sun.
Travel …
The original:
Пътувай
Някой ден, може би утре,
приготви се да пътуваш.
Флейтата разказва ручеи.
Листата плавно рисуват дъги,
политат в дъжда,
почти не оставят кръгове.
Пътувай, пътувай…
С душата единствено
(тя няма сянка).
С любовта си
(тя няма сянка).
Запази живота,
като музика, като дъжд,
като слепия, който спря
Слънцето.
Пътувай…
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 9:30 PM UTC
Will you break off with me,
my beloved,
morsel for morsel laddu*?
My dream doesn’t come to me,
my bed is divided,
my heart – dry,
fire is rankling me.
You’ll regret,
my beloved,
if you taste it –
outside it’s sweet
inside – bitter.
Twice more,
my beloved,
your tear will run fast
if you pass me by scornfully.
In my chest
I wear a diamond of snake,
a lion-hair on my wrist,
a wealth of Brahman
in my head.
Will someone take them, gifted
someone else but my death?
Ah, my beloved,
marry me.
*a round syrup sweet made of gram floor
The original:
Ходжата тича само до джамията
Ще отронваш ли с мене,
моя възлюбена,
късче по късче ладду*.
Сънят ми не ме спохожда,
леглото ми е делено,
сърцето – сухо,
огън ме гложди.
Ще съжаляваш,
моя възлюбена,
ако го вкусиш –
отвън е сладко,
отвътре – горчиво.
Дваж пъти повече,
моя възлюбена,
сълзи ще лееш
ако отминеш презрително.
Във гърдите си
диамант от змия нося,
косъм от лъв на китката си,
богатство на брахмин
в главата си.
Ще ги вземе ли някой дарени,
освен смъртта ми?
Ах, моя възлюбена,
омъжи се за мене.
___________
* кръгъл сиропиран сладкиш от нахутeно брашно.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
May 21, 2011
May 21, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
the language is
the most useless
gift
when I listen to you
hypnotized
(with this stupid
pink rose...)
The original:
отвеян
езикът е
най безполезния
дар
когато те слушам
хипнотизиран
( с тази глупава
розова роза…)
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 10:11 PM UTC
Hello friends! This is my first bilingual book.HAMMER @ ANVIL BOOKS released my book of poems as e-book on AMAZON Kindle: http: //www.amazon.com/A-Feather-of-Fujiyama-ebook/dp/B 00E5XY5PO/ref=sr_1_1? s=digital-text&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1374938945&sr;=1-1
Special thanks to Vessislava Savova (translator) , Mercedes Webb-Pullman (Editor) , Adam Henry Carriere (Editor) , and my daughter Liliya Pangelova (illustrator)
All proceeds from the sale of this collection will go to the Bulgarian Integrated Education Foundation, working to improve the lives of children and youth with special health and educational needs (including mild Down syndrome, autism / autistic spectrum, cerebral palsy, language-speech disorders, and hyperactivity) and their families.}
Thanks for your support everyone! I wish you happiness and good reading.
Bozhidar Pangelov
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
Bozhidar Paneglov is a Bulgarian poet. His debut collection in English, A Feather of Fujiyama, will be released in July 2013 by Hammer & Anvil Books.
http://www.dansemacabreonline.com/#!__dm71-postcard
In this issue of the magazine published three poems.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 5:19 AM UTC
GOS'POZHO! NE GO'VORYA' BALGARSKI
(Madame! I Don’t Speak Bulgarian!)
( for Onelia )
I stand outside
your world
all voiced & unvoiced
consonants
(& yes I know voiced consonants can become voiceless
but only in certain positions.)
‘mislya...’pisha
(to think...to write)
It’s all Cyrillic
to me.
Only able to enjoy the shape of it!
б
There is an O
with a scarf billowing
over its right shoulder
that really is a b.
(Reminds me of Isadora Duncan driving to her death
her scarf getting caught in the wheel.)
A capital Ɓ that is a v
(Oh yeah? Yeah!)
A large З that looks like a pair of *******
looking down from above from the side.
(And Lord save us
it’s...a z!)
An X that’s a h!
(I see...I see!)
Ф
An apple being cut in two
by a knife
once again
looking down from above
...that’s an f.
(Yes? Yes!)
Something that could be
a starburst
Ж
(zh...zh...zh)
Such a treasure!
Or a strong man
clasping two ladies by the waist
swooning to him in a tango
one on either side.
An Я
looking the wrong way
(Ya? Ya!)
И
Two capital I’s
hanging out together
with the I (i...i...i) on the right
with its hand on the left one’s ***
(naughty vowel...naughty vowel)
Й
And an other two I’s
up to the same shenanigans
but with half a halo over their heads
as if they only wanted to be half good!
Maybe one day
I’ll learn
A little Bulgarian
(dogo’dina... dogo’dina)
((next year...next year))
But right now
it’s all
pictures
to me
that dash across
my imagination.
Stra’hotna ‘roklya!
Iz’ghezhdash prek rasno!
(Fabulous dress!)
(You look great!)
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
You asked to have me too?
I’m a lilac, after all… or were I?
You don’t believe, that until recently
I smelled and bloomed
Greedy hands were reaching out to me
They picked and tore, and took my bloom away
My odor… stolen by the wind
My leaves…
A mist desired them, eyes watering
And so I gave
But to a cloud she ran away
And built a nest from them
My branches…
Caressed by frost-bitten beggar
She too asked to have them
I gave again
She put them to the fire
You asked to have me too?
I’m a lilac, after all… or were I?
Ever seen the aroma and the bloom of sin?
Your eyes perhaps caught too much light or tears?
Are you disappointed; maybe bored? Don’t go.
It seems there’s nothing left for you but you are wrong
Beneath your feet, buried deep within the soil
My root is dwelling waiting for the spring
The last and best of me
I hid and kept it just because
I’m a lilac, after all… or were I?
If you’d like I’ll show you how I used to bloom
Where are you going
Wait
Don’t you want me anymore
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
“Miss Corde was reading Plutarch by night the books then used to be taken seriously”
Zbigniew Herbert
(Adam Lux – Meditations)
Miss (or already, why not, Missis)
is reading.
So did she before getting married. The revolution of 1960s All is Love is over.
She used to sleep in tents. Why not?
The freedom has to be defended.
Drums, fires, the screams:
“Down with! Who doesn’t jump is.”
Rumble behind the walls. Marat is. Alive? Death? Used to live?
The time is traveling. The crown’s refined hat.
The hair short. With all the colors.
“In a dress like a blue rock.”
Obelisk? Yes! of passing from
necessity to
necessity (for survival).
Mrs. Corde, is reading. The Game of …
She’s dreaming. “All is love”.
The day is the most usual.
Charlotte?
She administrated justice.
The falling stars are glowing.
The original:
Протест (ретроспективно)
„Госпожица Корде нощем четяла Плутарх
книгите тогава били вземани насериозно“
Збигнев Херберт
( Адам Люкс-Размишления)
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Госпожица ( или вече , защо не, госпожа) чете.
Така е чела и преди да се омъжи. Минала е
революцията на 60 -те. “ Всичко е любов“
Спала е в палатките. Защо пък не?
Свободата трябва да се брани.
Барабани, пожари, виковете:
“ Долу! Кой не скача е“
Тътен зад стените. Марат е. Жив? Мъртъв? Живял?
Пътува времето. Короната е фина шапка.
Косата къса. С всички цветове.
„С рокля като синя скала.“
Обелиск? Да! на преминаване от необходимостта в
необходимост( за преживяване).
Госпожа Корде, чете. Играта на…
Мечтае. “ Всичко е любов“.
Денят е най-обикновен.
Шарлот?
Въздаде справедливост.
Звездите падащи сияят.
Jun 18, 2011
Jun 18, 2011 at 9:19 PM UTC
The night is speaking like a cascade.
She’s knitting filigreed lights and shadows.
Sunk in the deep sea
of Sargasso eyes
I stay quiet and don’t find words.
And the scars on your hand
are fading, in order to burn
in my heart.
Oh, sailboats after a long trip
with all the winds in the sails –
sand is calling you.
But it isn’t death!
Oh, it isn’t the end too!
The hand
is going to knock up a hut for you
and in the wide garden
it smells with magnolia and manuscripts…
And I am a sign
The original:
Нощта говори като водоскок
Нощта говори като водоскок.
Преплита филиграрно светлини и сенки.
Потънал във дълбокото море
на сарагасови очи
мълча и не намирам думи.
И белезите на ръката ти
се губят, за да горят
във моето сърце.
О, платноходи след дългото пътуване
със всички ветрове в платната –
зове ви пясък.
Но не е смърт!
О, това не е и краят!
Ръката
ще ви скове на дом
и във широката градина
ухае на магнолии и на ръкописи…
И аз съм знак.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 10:14 PM UTC
The Rozhen Monastery of the Nativity of the Mother of God (Bulgarian: Роженски манастир "Рождество Богородично", Rozhenski manastir "Rozhdestvo Bogorodichno") is the biggest monastery in the Pirin Mountains in southwestern Bulgaria. It is one of the few medieval Bulgarian monasteries well preserved until today.
Rozhen Monastery website
http://rozen.pmg-blg.com/index.php
Rozhen
on a dry tree hung
does the monastery hang
and a road is curving
like a snake
with its tail up
do you hear that cry
of the rocks
the silence screams
overcome
by all the words
by the roar of crickets
by the blood in the vains
I've never understood nothing
stuck the palms
and three fingers
above the soil
The original:
рожен
на сухо дърво окачен
виси манастирът
и се извива път
подобно змия
с опашката си нагоре
чуваш ли онзи вик
на скалите
тишината пищи
сломена
от всичките думи
от грохота на щурците
от кръвта във вените
никога нищо не съм разбрал
залепнали дланите
и три пръста
над пръст
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 10:30 PM UTC
At that hour
the breeze turns around.
The fishermen are coming back
with hands splintery,
without lips,
with eyes of stone.
The bottom is empty
like a bottle at midnight.
The shore is there
where somebody’s waiting.
They’ve sleep for a long time. Dreaming.
With hands locked together.
He, the wind, the last one
an orphan, leads
them…
The original:
Възхвала
Във този час
бризът се обръща.
Рибарите се връщат
с ръце нацепени,
без устни,
с очи от камък.
Дъното е празно
като бутилка в полунощ.
Брегът е там,
където някой чака.
Отдавна спят. Сънуват.
С ръце преплетени.
Той, вятърът, последният
сирак, ги
води…
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 2:28 AM UTC
I miss feeling you.
Your grip on my thigh,
you caressing my hand,
you biting my skin,
you playing with my hair.
Wiping the grass of me
after trips to the park and
both your hold on my hip and
the bottom of my spine.
I miss hearing you.
The sound of your voice,
your attempts at sarcasm and
the way you’d laugh
when you really find something funny.
How you’d always swear in French
and speak to your Mum in Bulgarian,
the exhale you make when you’re happy
and when you’d sing in the car.
How your voice is barely audible
late at night and early morning.
I miss seeing you.
Seeing you cook,
seeing you drive,
the look of puzzlement
when trying to remember something
or the look of happiness
when you hear a song you love.
Seeing you buzzed and rosy cheeked
after a couple too many drinks.
Seeing you snug in my bed
at the end of the night.
I miss kissing you.
Lazy kisses, limbs tangled
in the early hours of the morning.
Kisses in the back of your car and
rushed kisses when saying goodbye.
Kissing your nose, kissing your neck
and you kissing my neck.
Kissing in the park, kissing in cafes
and kissing in art galleries.
Toothpaste kisses, prickly kisses
and kissing in one another’s beds.
I even miss the things that once annoyed me.
You always correcting my words,
getting frustrated when driving
and when you’d tease my lisp.
How’d you get up to change the song
in the middle of getting it on and
finish every intelligent ramble
with a defeated “I don’t know.”
Your need to check your hair
in anything reflective,
how you’d drink all my water
instead of just buying your own
and pick all the food I didn’t want off my plate.
I miss everything about you
and I hope maybe you miss me too.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:20 AM UTC
Heady is its scent
this here Bulgarian rose
Dazed men walk drowning
Oct 18, 2021
Oct 18, 2021 at 5:42 AM UTC
.while some people hijack planes and fly them into the anti-thesis of the Jenga game, others hijack things more... metaphysical... like language... oh... over 20 years in England... there was that French girl, the Australian girl, the Spanish girl, the Bulgarian, the African lass, the Russian... and count my stars lucky.... no English girl.
in terms of how much **** is
a racial slur...
is it the syllable count?
should i ask an Afghan?
**** pure laziness...
so not the prefix...
how about the suffix,
i.e. -stani? Stanley...
auburn Stanley...
never mind,
apparently nothing short of
a sense of humor outside
being on the receiving end
of: identifiable vermin...
oh, right...
identity politics...
i'm a mongrel,
a hybrid...
really...
i don't exactly know what this
tongue is doing in
this body...
inorganic English...
acquired -
psyche mongrel...
to your suspicion of half caste;
because i was going to
feel obliged to feel subordinate
to a former colonial
subject on the basis
that... what?
what, exactly?
RAF RAF RAF...
last time i checked.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 6:51 AM UTC
The misty Bulgarian wilderness can be heard in the howling winds, when the curtains of the night are drawn to an ****** and violent anticipation.
Damp and ancient stones are impetuous as the rusted Iron Gate releases the scent of a gothic funeral pyre.
So, visit your loved ones and acknowledge those succulent orifices of the earth.
I love Lilith, because she is Slavic in her secreted spirituality; and I love her rabid fornications inside those forbidden walls.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
Listening to “The Chieftains” again,
Their Long Black Veil CD: a gift to
Marijuana smokers. N'est-ce pas?
**** Jagger singing the title track,
A sweet, lugubrious ode to black widows.
Could there be such creatures?
Women you would **** for,
Offing your best friend for?
She had better be as good as it gets.
Could such women exist?
Beautiful & toxic;
Duplicitous, cunning,
Cunnilingus-worthy.
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**** would have licked her **** as
They led him up the scaffold steps,
She was a woman worth dying for, to be sure.
And Sinéad Marie Bernadette O'Connor?
Isn’t it time we forgave her?
So she shaved her head.
So she shredded the Pope’s photo on SNL.
He was, after all, the Polish Pope,
The one that kissed the ground
Whenever he got off an airplane.
How could you not love the guy?
Shot while riding in his Pope Mobile,
He later visited Mehmet Ali Ağca in prison,
Forgiving his would-be assassin face-to-face,
Exonerating the Bulgarian kreplach, for all
Special Victims Unit “especially heinous offenses” &
Proto-Islamic terror.
Surely, he could forgive the little Irish ****
Can’t we? Leading by example?
I don’t know what you’d call it.
In any language: powerful.
Oh, Sinead, my sweet Sinead,
We miss your sweet sad dulcet tones.
Consider yourself exonerated.
Consider yourself free to be loved again.
And let’s not forget Tom Jones,
Come on ladies: you threw your sopping
Wet ******* to the stage for him.
His “Tennessee Waltz” breaking my heart,
Losing my wife to my best friend.
No wonder I shot the Sheriff.
Surprised I did not also shoot the Deputy.
And “The Chieftains” themselves,
Transporting us to the Coast of Malabar.
We are all Irish sailors
Infatuated, hopelessly enchanted by a
Swarthy Dravidian shiksa.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
Today I bought from the market
a kilo of tomatoes
and a few cucumbers.
Totally 4.80 leva.*
She also bought a kilo –
less cucumbers
more tomatoes.
For 4.80 leva.
A sunny day.
* Bulgarian monetary unit, approximately - $ 1 is 1.5 leva.
May 18, 2011
May 18, 2011 at 11:23 PM UTC
then we
will be higher with all the beautiful people
e.e. cummings
me
and maybe you too
me too
if we walk hand by hand under rain
and maybe both me and you and rain
with a balloon
and maybe both me and you
and all the children
with a balloon
if we walk hand by hand under rain
it will be wonderful for
the world
with a balloon
you
and me
all the children too
and rain
аз и ти и
тогава ние
ще сме по-високо с всичките красиви хора
е.е къмингс
аз
а може би и ти
и аз
ако вървиме за ръка под дъжд
а може би и аз и ти и дъжд
с балон
а може би и аз и ти
и всичките деца
с балон
ако вървиме за ръка под дъжд
ще е чудесно за
света
с балон
ти
и аз
и всичките деца
и дъжд
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
May 24, 2011
May 24, 2011 at 10:35 PM UTC
she is like a chinese vase
(i do not know which dynasty from)
most probably of Min one
with the course of time
the smithereens
have broken
(almost invisibly)
you can understand
only
if you pass a finger
on the mouth
on the neck
on
but only if it is bare
without a glove
(velvet or of tulle)
i do not know if i am doing it
but sometimes
in the morns
a light fog
is spreading
then i change my slip cover
it is light
and usually white
китайска ваза
тя е като китайска ваза
(не знам от коя династия)
по вероятно от Мин
с хода на времето
парченца
са се отчупили
(почти невидимо)
можеш да разбереш
само
ако прокараш пръст
по устието
по шията
по
но само ако е гол
без ръкавица
(кадифена или от тюл)
не зная дали го правя
но понякога
в утрините
се стеле
светла мъгла
тогава си сменям калъфката
тя е лека
и обикновено бяла
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
Apr 26, 2011
Apr 26, 2011 at 7:20 AM UTC