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Ever the same is the fate of the shoes that are worn out.
Ever the same is the sun that dries out our brains.
Why then even today like an yolk shines the square
from the bad eggs you have thrown, the poet to oust?
He goes out in the morning to learn of your woes,
and returns in the end with kerchiefs for his aching head.
A cloak of dust he has flung over his shoulder
(so threadbare a coat has only a cabbage),
he doesn't want to be taller than grass
so the ants may reach the bread crumbs he has in his palm.
Because you know his hat is torn,
when he starts singing, you throw in some coins to abase him.
And your ears - gnawed by the words - they cannot hear
of what he is speaking, but the howl of the wind.
You curse him from your window when he walks at night...
But only he witnessed a man fly off the bridge.
The water was sewing the drowned man a suit to dress in,
while you were drowning in the depths of your pillows.
You went out when the job was all done,
to fill the night with moan and gossip.
But in a minute he'll emerge, and stretch out a hand.
Be careful not to fall - don't lean over the railing.



© Boris Hristov
© Stefan D. Stefanov, translated from bulgarian
© E-magazine LiterNet, 27.03.2011, № 3 (136)