The Man By My Side
The man by my
side is a walking stick dropped on the road.
And it’s been so
long I’ve been walking bent over him.
Now I straighten
up and learn to walk again.
The body grown
heavy sways likes the point of a balance.
And the world
leans on me.
Two Rivers Keep Writing
By My Father’s Home
the name of
victory.
How many years
since his daughters –
two swans –
have learned to read…
The bridges,
built by him, have survived –
One made of rough stone –
it doesn’t feel
how the water demolishes it fondly;
the other one – knitted out
of ropes and air –
a cradle rocked
by destiny.
But what can one
gain victory over
in just a
lifetime?!
From the first bridge death
fell,
it is still
fishing for trout under the second one.
It doesn’t reach for you, if
you feed it,
it doesn’t come, unless you
drive it away.
The nettle
picker
stops in front of my home –
beautiful
as a fairy-tale.
And, what good
luck,
she enters my poem
by
herself.
My friends stop
drinking,
the children are
astounded:
does the prince
really
not
get stung,
once he holds her in his arms
instead
of me?
About The Bones Of Tongue
we judge by the
remnants of dinosaurs.
About silence –
by the imprints of mollusks
on the
bottom,
which heaves the
mountain today.
Better
the signs of war be ossified,
it was already over.
I have never had
such need of time
as a motion
which sweeps away
sorrow.
ROZA BOYANOVA
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