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He has a scar on his forehead, and always sits at the back.
Even if he's tall, the loner is a small man.
He gathers herbs, or hews the stones reminiscent -
whenever he is out of work - and carries shabby blanket with himself.

The skull of steed is glistening in the field: the loner goes,
to simply cast an eye - not that he wishes it was maned.
And while the others cry, or talk of arts,
the loner at the table catches flies, and lets them free.

But if he is a poet for certain he's to leave
A tear in the eye, or scratch inside your memory...

He has a home, and hot soup but his life is so much pent
As if it were a crate disposed of at the far end of the corridor.

And if this home should even topple upside down
he'd rather live on ashes than he'd pray.
What fires he burned in, and what iron pressed him -
a lot of wine you'll have to drink with him to know...

And as he strides, speck on his clean shirt,
the loner suddenly dissolves into the crowd, as if he were a bead.

A book he has in one hand - for the burdened soul,
and in the other does the loner clutch a rope - deep in his pocket.



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