Настройки: Разшири Стесни | Уголеми Умали | Потъмни | Стандартни
If, God forbid, my hour strikes me
Amidst an icy square, or on a heated street -
Somebody will pick up the bag with bread and books
And the official will itemize my things.
A pen. Not golden.
Effaced with use.
It read "Sweetheart"
And: "I object. I don't agree."
A purse. We found that the money...
The money? We knew each other:
I knew the value and I knew how to squander it.
A key. And from a mailbox.
My home. With the flowers, with the little flies in the chandelier
With the short days and the long nights,
With a girl to make everything seem right,
With a picture of a man on the chest of drawers.
And in one drawer - half her life is
We found old tickets -
for the train, for the cinema...
How many roads in your life you have traveled!
When leaving I was all trembling with expectation
And I was glowing with happiness - that I was back.
Till the next setting off.
...and little things: a comb,
perfume, a mirror...
I was not pretty. But loved I was. Till the end.
To the last unfinished thought.
Here the inventory ends. Seal.
And the man does not know
that he has inventoried my whole life.
© Stanka Pencheva
© Hristo Boev - translated, 2003
© E-publishing LiterNet, 20. 07.
Furst edition, electronic.