Today when the lighthouses are vanishing

The radio was as laden as a galleon

for a long voyage, a Noah’s Ark for a single beast

that growled and roared and howled.

I put my fingers on the buttons’ teeth,

pushing them one after the other.

A green eye – deep and alert –

was coming to life, but stayed silent.

The box was gaining power, gaining strength.

(Old appliances demanded respect. They waited

to get it.) After briefly warming up,

the radio would start sailing

across the sea of information. Under the canvas

of its hidden funnel music would start gushing out.

Official news emerged from the roar, then plunged back

into the fog of white noise. Politics lived on islands

of grey words where endless speeches

repeated them in a new order.

Distant stations called for attention

and in fading voices exchanged Morse code.

I twisted the buttons with both hands, breaking

the waves ahead and chasing the signals.

The yellow bulb over my childhood bed

was the lighthouse I could always

come back to.

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