A ‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‎POEM ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ABOUT ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎HOPE

you might even die tomorrow.

yes, for real,

it’s quite posiible.

it's complex, but

the brightest, the sharpest November winds

will take you to the swampy side of black,

while the black in your liver will grow blacker

most probably at night.

the white in your lungs

will go black as well,

you'll burn and you’ll hurt.

you'll hurt other people as well.      

but!

in the absolute glittering decay of bones,

while your cement teeth bleed,

and your sandpaper nails grow backwards,

when your blood is thick nectar,

you’re thirsty, you do not drink,

you're hungry, you do not eat,

you linger in your body made of mica and frost.

when death is only an eyelash away,

and the bed is half-empty again,

when you are no longer made of your grandfathers’ stuff,

when summer is no longer contagious,

you sense that something will happen,

you learn.

you'll pour yourself a glass of living water,

dead vodka. you'll suckle.

and it will be a little better than yesterday,

not well

but better.

and don’t forget – this isn’t a trifle.

before you begin to talk

you stutter.

before you write,

you breathe.

who knows.

tommorow you might even love.   

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips