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There are some days, such awful days exist,
Which your own hate does force on you in horror,
That chest is full of aching, pulling pain,
And your sore throat feels like it can spill some over.
And times go by, and you'll be asking why,
Why all the hate, why are the days so bitter,
But there's no answer, none at all, and that's because
It's in their core, it's their material, it'll be there.
© Nikola Vaptsarov
© Igor Milner, translated from bulgarian
© E-magazine LiterNet, 04.02.2012, № 2 (147)