автор: slona

Oh, my sweet, sweet colonnade
do you still sharpen your pillars
against the cinnamon dusk of the place
so distant,
so insanely revered,
so bitterly rejected
the place called . . .
How did we call this place, Madam?
Patria, madam?
Or something like that?
I did forget. . .
Do I regret. . .

But I remember.
The cinnamon dusk,
the smell of wet moss,
remnants in the distance, roses in the distance,
graveyards, leaned on the horizon,
crosses, piercing the skies. . .
Murky-ness of nothing-ness
and leaves of grass
( defined by Whitman )
under the Whitmanly White un-a-Ware-ness
of coming spring.

Oh, my sweet, concrete colonnade,
I hope you’ll open your primroses
as those old hearts of ours
fluttering,
half ajar
Far. . .so far
I hope
you’ll relinquish your promises, sweet colonnade,
and give me your wind,
sprung from portals of death.

“In the corner of some foreign field
I had a dream. . .”

I remember that Sofia tune. . .
We do not have dreams
anymore - furthermore
. . . the doom is fallinnnn’ -
the dice is rollinnnn’ . . .
I do not dream – I see
them
Bulgarian brethren
facing Bulgarian brethren
in front of you, my sweet
colonnade,
and the colonel
coldly
commanding:
„ При нооо. . .зе ! ”

“ Where are you from?
Ohio, sir.
Do you remember the river?
Ohio river, sir? “

Where are you from?
Sofia, sir.
Do you remember the river?
Perlovskata, sir?

Springggg
I’ll read again
profusely and in vain -
E.E.
Cummings
( for example )
I’ll read semi–spontaneously,
sweet colonnade,
about the sweet spontaneous,
my colonnade,
of those rusty fingers of the past
poking
prodding
squeezing
buffeting. . .
And I’ll be genuinely surprised
that:
“Thou aswerest
Them only with
Spring”

I do not know, my crumbling colonnade,
if when and how
the Spring will answer

but answer shall I wait for!