NOSTALGIA

the crystal cildren run

between blocks of flats, laugh

frenetically, happily, they press

September leaves into a herbarium

in August while their immortal grannies

in dressing gowns and rollers

roast red peppers again,

chatting across the terraces,

and the TV antennae are helicopters.

quiet now, children, take in this air

breathe in deeply till it hurts -

tommorrow this will be a broken memory. 

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips