IN FACT

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It’s fall again,
and once again I see
a tattered raven on the windowsill;
I can say farewell to my resident wishes,
I can send them far backwards, so far
back that I don’t remember anymore.
The trees will scatter their clothes, tired
by September’s parting heat. The rains will also pass
by turns. Men will dig
their basements
down to the bottom to inter the grief of all the
former autumns. My wife will bandage
our son’s knees
skinned in farewell
with the streets extending to sundown. Once again
I’ll take up the pencil in order to remember how short
I have stood leaning on the windowsill,
and how intimate I have become with the raven now.

© Ivan Bregov
© Valentin Krustev, translation from Bulgarian
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© E-magazine LiterNet, 28.05.2013, № 5 (162)