Sunday, May 1, 2022





In order for the colour spots above the hill

to spring up in the morning,

to read the message in the sidewalk tiles,

for to believe in the white wind

blowing once a year,

sun, youth and greenery

are needed.




The birds wake up the day.

They wake up the blue,

drive away the snow.

They stay among the curved branches,

spread out in the sky brilliantly.

They add honey to its sound,

honey of time.

They discover old horizons

with lilacs, grass, river, fragrance.




I want to drink water from a pitcher,

in the room under the sun,

to the flowers,


overflowing from the pitcher,

feeling the splash,

before the pitcher broke.

I want to echo the music

from the radio,

to lean against the wall,

under the shed with tobacco strings,

next to the garden.

I want to listen

in the breath of the earth,

to believe in its eyes,

to melt into it

moaning with distrust.

To get through the corn

and scratch my feet

in the soil and foliage.

Let the wind rustle

before going to sleep.

To look for the past in a dream,

non-existence - in the dark rooms.

To bring water from the well

on the path,

on the song on the path,

came down from the cloud

in blue and warm.

To bring faith from the well,

filling my bosom with stars,

hands with fireflies,

dizzy from the ground,

covered with leaves and plums,

fragrant rotten apples,

the Earth,

laden with blossom.

Where is the house?


The Truck


The rain in the tarpaulin was falling

and the summer was raining,

the autumn reigned

in its white smile.

The day was an ocean -

it had the grass,

the fragrant air

and the wet ground,

the sky of Thrace

and living water.

It was raining like a dream,

but it was all reality -

the magic that you were out

from your selfish garment

and every thought, drop, ring

in laughter overflow as in a song.

The rain in the tarpaulin was white

and ran like a sail,

it was more thirsty than asphalt -

the day, turned into a globe.

It was raining and the rain was blue,

and it was white then.

And we were rain and a truck,

wrapped in rain - white chain

and there was time,

the sky and the day fit.

And we sang in the rain,

the dust hovered in the sky -

it was smoke then.

And we were smoke too,

and it rained in the field.

It was a parable - so we were

then we were autumn parables,

and we were drops of white

and we laughed merrily.

And our laughter resounded

in the field, rain suffered.

There is still laughter

in the field every autumn.




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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