Настройки: Разшири Стесни | Уголеми Умали | Потъмни | Стандартни
Still I would live on - had I only one arm,
still I'd be joyous that this one I have.
With a leaf I'll keep warm in the winter,
of leaves I will make up my sandals...
We wanted to tear down the wall -
and burn on the square like straw,
but my friend I lost in a hole;
after him all the others - couple by couple.
Having forgotten I was here to live,
I closed my eyes, allowing no witness -
and I hit, and I scratched, and I howled against it
until blood was shed from my hands.
Then I passed out in wild weed,
in secret I wept, angered and wronged -
if you cry, no one will hear,
what you write - no one will see.
I then exhaled the last of my hope
and cut off myself the wings sprouting -
what is a man, when a mouse
can freely pass from below!...
Ah, life is ending, it'll boil over as soda -
all rest is wind and a poem.
And should I now cry out at will,
I would cry out: 'I CRY.'
Had I strength in the hand,
and if a word had to be written,
I would dare and write on the wall:
'THIS IS A WALL.' And nothing else.
© Boris Hristov
© Stefan D. Stefanov, translated from bulgarian
© E-magazine LiterNet, 27.03.2011, № 3 (136)