Public Republic

Bozhana Apostolova

Photo: Wolfgang Staudt

The mist coughed up the soul of winter. It dawned,
and the day set out wrapped in a scarf of white tears.
Someone wept inside me, while in my ear a little bug droned.
So, life, are you speeding again with puffy and drowsy eyes?

Where are you rushing to? Which way are you spurring the stallion
with those worn-out shoes, with that messy mane? We have labored
so far, haven’t we, and I hadn’t known who and where I’d been,
or where to burry my tears, or what it had been that hurt.

Take me out of this place. We are still safe and sound, are we not?
Turn down the next lane: far away from other ones’ eyes.
There I’ll comb the stallion and I’ll have him re-shod.
We’ll release him. We’ll relish his flight and won’t say a word for a while.

18.01.2009

Translated from Bulgarian by Valentin Krustev and Donna Martell