The unreadable sky above the little town

The unreadable sky above the little town

 that we are going to leave.

The afternoon- a butterfly exhausted  

by idleness, languor and sleeplessness. 

The cheerful twitter of the sparrows

in the cobweb of sun-heated streets. 

The cherry pie wrapped in brown paper

in the bakery at the corner.

Everything will merge tomorrow 

when we leave 

under the throbbing pulse of the wind.

I will sing silently while we drive away 

and the twilight flows in, as forgiving as a future.

We will be silent. The town will condense inside us-

a puzzle of sights, a nectar of words. 

A cherry pie whose juice will rise

- pale blood on the brown paper  

of our memory.  

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips

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