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web

language gone lame
each attempt at writing poetry - pointless

there is glass between myself and life
its warm muzzle cannot reach me
I do not match myself
I am my own monument
wrapped in cellophane through praising and myths
I call myself with every step
the flies take away my only name
to the green sea of wheat
twenty-eight cows turn their heads slowly
the wet look in their eyes shatters
the glass into salt
and my tongue makes a first step on its own

I am not your mother

I am the cow that licks
the stone of salt
from the other side of the river

go

© Rene Karabash
© Youliana Todorova - translated from bulgarian
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© E-magazine LiterNet, 27.07.2020, № 7 (248)