Aksinia Mihailova
Photo: dawnzy58
On Friday evening,
on my way home
where someone is waiting for me
my wings grow out
and I become a swallow.
Perhaps birds have their hidden
compass:
they know exactly
when to return,
where their nests are.
On the other days of the week,
as I turn my head
to comb my feathers,
instead of my wings
I see my idle bones,
I hurry up to cover them up
with one of my motley
shawls
so nobody would know
I’ve forgotten to fly.
Translated from Bulgarian by Roumiana Tiholova
No comments so far ↓
Nobody has commented yet. Be the first!
Comment