/Поглед.инфо/
Bulgaria! Your tears wept
I turned into verses. And I was burning.
Longing for unexpected fates
at least I could be a comfort to you…
I’ve been through hopes dashed,
and dust and ashes in my palms I rubbed.
I looked for faith in springs and roots
and I drank your pain a hundredfold.
I ached for your outcasts,
extinguished without memory or trace.
Sufferers, condemned to misery,
with a breast smeared with grief.
Lonely old men limping with canes.
Old women with a wild and tortured look.
And gypsies dreaming in the katuns
tin from the last cauldron.
They were your story too
which annals did not accommodate.
Unnecessary tusks in dry territory,
as each screams of agony.
Elements in voices, dreams and urges,
sunk in the shadows beyond
and not fate, but a bunch of pine needles,
which in fiery smoke shall burn.
And somewhere, nameless denied,
souls to remember their terrible hell,
that they are called Bulgarians among you
from village to village, and from town to town.
With one person – the coffin is a tragedy,
and with the many – statistics without a temple.
And you don’t see in me a black eye,
but the real one was painfully straight.
“Descendants, you will dig in vain…”
– so a Poet enlightened you.
But the poisons remained in the future
of our unfulfilled dreams.
And perhaps with this the poor man dies,
that happiness will dawn on someone else,
albeit after thirteen centuries
you are still waiting for bright holidays.
Yasen Vedrine
(Copper pan)
#tears #Bulgaria #View #Info
