The nook under the eaves

The nook under the eaves,

the sharp voice of the seagulls,

their sharp flight above us, beneath the stars, 

the wind that rubs at  

my bare feet

while I imagine.

That I am not touching you. There is no need for that. 

I can invent everything, 

even the surf that washes away the needless,

so let only the words stay –

predatory, tender, and mint-flavoured,

words,  I write,  so that I  don’t  speak them,

love of mine – a she-wolf in a cage

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

The Bulgarian  text first appeared in ‘Wings Made of Papier Mâché ’ (Janet-45, 2019)