Holy places in groups

I don’t know why I can’t see

the legend in the stone,

the angel, wings clasped above the altar,

beyond its expertise.

Tourists flood from the light at the entrance,

crowd around illegible slates,

winding in a queue.

The Russian women have covered their heads

with pious scarves, the Americans

are blushing beneath their baseball caps.

The Poles buy packets of incense

as gifts for home.

Everyone takes secret photographs.

Outside it smells of saffron,

kebabs, hot pita bread, unsold salad

tomatoes and cucumbers.

The candles laid out on the stall

have no price. Strawberries for ten shekels,

yarmulkes for twenty.

The rosaries are made

in Sri Lanka. The Arabs

hurry to prayers at the mosque,

closing the lokum stalls.

Kirkor Pizza awaits the hungry

from the Via Dolorosa.

The peoples of the world gather on God’s grave

only to pass by each other again

following the tour leaders’ flags.

At night the church, built

in five different ways, is locked

by a Muslim family.

The cries disappear. The wind

blows in from the desert,

sweeps up the trash of exultation.

Translated by Tom Phillips

The original Bulgarian text was published in:  ‘Dear Passengers‘ (2018), Izdatelstvo za poezia DA, Sofia, Bulgaria; 

The English text first appeared in: Blackbox Manifold