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She is so reticent,
She is like a house,
From wich a melody floats,
But no one knows how many people live in
And the neighbours are never invited.
She is so reticent,
That her cocks don’t crow
But hum;
Her cats run away
to shriek at liberty
In another’s yards.
One white hand
Waters flowers by the window
But nobody’s seen nearly
The ring wich gleams.
Isn’t it a drop of water
In geranium’s mossy cupped hands?
She is so reticent,
That the time ever comes in her garden
With a season late.
In her breathe
Forgotten afternoons,
Quiet nooks, sparrows,
Yellow quinces, splashed by the rain,
And words,
That she will never say.
Thus you will have her -
Yours and hers,
Untrue and chaste.

© Maria Doneva
© Ludmil Luckanov, translated from bulgarien
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© E-magazine LiterNet, 28.01.2010, № 1 (122)