Tuesday, March 1, 2022








The familiar star face of the night

is peeking out of my window into the room.

I didn’t know the song – I learned it –

I can’t sing it.

But in the mountains is the sky,

the field also contains forests.

The day is longer than the folly,

although sometimes we think the opposite.



Two mussels scorch and burn.

Two dark mussels burn me

with the sea in them.

They burn the palm,

the eyes and the soul

and they turn me into an abyss.



In the grass of the night,

in the sleeping mystery,

in the expiring pencil

near the blue notebook

I outline the sunset

of the coming summer,

of the smoldering sweet

noon of the grass.

In the twilight of the night,

I can see the sunrise

with the smell of milk.



When a lot of time passes

the artifact shines


as if there was a lamp in it

which illuminates

the soul of man

who has passed

in the afterlife long ago

I experienced this some time ago

in the museum

considering antiques

and it was as if the sculptures were shining

from within

and the stone was glowing with eternal light

saved its author

it was only marked

the era

and maybe there was written “unknown author”



The night is in full swing.

Night of crickets.

Only the station lights up,

the village is already sleeping.



The Compromises


Someone said

the sky was clear and wonderful today,

showed the Milky Way

and ended up with a lie.

For a moment, I thought

that compromises also had dimensions

because we are only a little eternal.





The birds laid on the sunset.

The sun’s beam leaned

against the tree.

The roses reached the sadness

in immovable charm.

The scent of the plowed land

near the city spread.

The sun pierced the earth.

I felt its back hurt.

The doubt dig out like a warm

and crawled on the leaf,

asking me for the comfort

which I carried with my palms

and set it on the river.




It's nice to watch sometimes

the glare of the sun

on a metal bed frame.

Old things are coming

in old charms.

But someone tells us

that we have to throw away everything old.

And I wonder -

will they throw me out of the bed,

if I'm a river, if I'm a baby?




MIROSLAVA PANAYOTOVA (Bulgaria) graduated from Plovdiv University, specialty Bulgarian philology and English language. She has published poems, stories, tales, aphorisms, essays, criticisms, translations, articles and interviews in periodical and collections. She has published the following poetry books: Nuances, 1994, God of the senses, 2005, Pitcher, 2014, Whisper of leaves, 2017, Green feeling, 2018; two books with stories: An end, and then a beginning, 2017, Path of love, 2018; two eBooks: Laws of communicatons /aphorisms/, 2018, Old things /poetry/, 2018. She is a member of the Union of the Independent Bulgarian Writers and a member of Movimiento Poetas del mundo. She is a member and a coordinator in the team to the e-journal Ghorsowar, too. Miroslava Panayotova is an ambassador of IFCH (International Forum for Creativity and Humanity).


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