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)
