THE SANATORIUM OF OTHER PEOPLE’S DEATH

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The ailing house towers over
the edge of all minutes and the stars
can be seen below.

In the afternoon the rehab room is lit up,
and at night only a few windows
where insomnia chases the day's news.

The newspapers are letters
from yesterday's world, which is no more,
and you just can't know what

really happened.
The air is clear and willingly enters
the lame lungs.

There, oh there.
There people with transplanted odds and bits
walk about and answer each question with

'by and by.' They wrap their dressing-gowns
around their bodies, strange to the world,
each one riveted onto a heart that tells

a stranger's
horrible story.

© Kristin Dimitrova
© Kristin Dimitrova, translated from bulgarian
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© E-magazine LiterNet, 12.07.2008, № 7 (104)

Other publications:
Kristin Dimitrova. My Life in Squares. Middlesbrough: Smokestack Books, 2010.