Bozhana Apostolova
Photo: dawnzy58
Everything starts from there – from the dipped soggy brush:
swaying wheaten in the plowed up ocher wind gust,
a blue song above them and a wing gone mad
with the wild mixture of wind and white…
Everything starts from there… I wonder where does it go?
Where are you rushing to, fluffy-maned colt?
Where are these Bulgarian houses running to,
in this Bulgarian evening – at this hour of home-coming…
Worshipper and god… With a brush in the pale fingers, enclosed
exactly the way Mom makes the sign of the cross.
Translated from Bulgarian by Valentin Krustev and Donna Martell
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