JULY
I count the UFOs of your presence.
the sky is barren, July is
contagious, we are sick with July. it is thick around us.
did you hear that, are you listening, are you thought-reading
are you absence-copying me, are you love-creating yourself?
stop. you can*t. this vector’s without end.
write me a star-foreheaded “orange” and know:
July passes the baton to no one,
everything's endless.
we will always meet by chance
in the happy desert of the year 2023
Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips
TO MY DAUGHTER
It all begins with an idea.
if they tell you, you’re only an apple,
don’t take offence.
watch.
and forgive.
and listen to Miles Davis, Shostakovich,
the crickets in the evening, birds in early morning.
and at night don’t even listen to yourself.
smoke. write. draw.
do not forget:
the cigarettes, the leaves, the drawings
burn and give warmth differently.
buy yourself a razor, loaf of bread, a crimson dress -
someday you’ll surely need them all.
call me just to tell me you exist.
under the sooty cloudless sky
you’ ll meet people with the souls of dogs
and dogs with the eyes of a young lover
the one you’ll learn to hate if needs be.
and don’t forget to smell the roses
in a world where weeds take over
where the difference between ‘’heaven’’ and ‘’hell’’
is in the clearing of the throat.
Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips
THE HEART
It all begins with an idea.
is not an exit
but a door
Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips
NOSTALGIA
It all begins with an idea.
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
SATURDAY MORNING
It all begins with an idea.
I listen to the birds singing,
and the sun enters my room like a Persian prince
who looks at me with a fatherly smile.
and death seems almost impossible.
Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips