I believe in time

I believe in time which blurs 

the sharp edges of defeat, 

the innocence of hope 

the stern sorrow of  treachery. 

And only a wooden table remains beneath the sky,

a few walnuts with bright, still milky seeds.  

I sit quietly and touch nothing. 

My hands are no more those chubby stars

whose curves mama followed with a pencil 

and wrote a date beneath the palm. 

Her doomed attempt to capture time

with thick handwriting and a biro.

Time won’t run out, mom, I don’t tell her.

I cannot talk about important things

But I believe. Belief is my method 

to slice with a knife the waters of oblivion.

To cut in two the flesh of the walnut. 

To not let scars heal. 

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

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