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Under flaming sun life fiddles with us
we rub out our feet from the hot stone...
But when evening descends from the heavens,
I will take my trumpet and sit on the threshold.
Enough have I wandered around those walls
like the chime of a bell that was broken.
I have to play it, I have to tear down
the silence - and let but the cry to persist.
I want the wind torrid to howl and
to blast wide open the doors.
I want the earth to start marching anon
after the crusade of the crickets.
I want the barbed wire round your home
with my song to sever.
I want the neighbour that pretends
to be deaf to recover his hearing.
I want the thief his fingers to tie,
the warden a heart to buy for himself.
I want some of my tears to shed
into the eye that is rusting.
I want the fair to us to return
again - to sweep off the dust.
I want him to die of laughter and tickle
who is dying of boredom.
I want us over the dead
to keep sentry till morning.
I want to all sleepers to say:
there is time enough to be sleeping...
I have to play in the numb night
until I hear coming to me
The voice of a thousand trumpets of distant.
Or of an archangel invisible.
© Boris Hristov
© Stefan D. Stefanov, translated from bulgarian
© E-magazine LiterNet, 27.03.2011, № 3 (136)