Translated by Ivangelina Vateva

Ink Plumage

Ever since he found his glasses

this man gets lost more and more often

in the streets of the city

and he can’t remember who he is.

he doesn’t notice

how the walls in the room

shake at nightfall

the books – wounded birds,

start flying from the shelves

and the ink plumage covers

the table and the armchairs,

blurs the edges of the objects

and the delayed kisses.

He´s short of breath

that’s why he can’t read in my eyes

the weariness and what I kept to myself –

that my house is not

my castle anymore.

In his stomach this man is hiding

a voracious mushroom

that devours all my joy.

Ever since he found his glasses,

he doesn’t see the notes with

‘water the flowers’ all over the house

that’s why they’re slowly withering

just like my desires

and as I listen to the voices from outside

I find it harder and harder

to recognise my own.

****

In between you have your life, I have mine

and the messy bed of I miss you

there’s an insuperable shift of seasons

harboring your fears

and my freedom –

paralyzed like the steam locomotive

in a central station’s waiting room.

And like an engineer gone mad

who’s stopped the fast train of desire

amidst the poppy fields,

you close your eyes to see more clearly

the little girl pulling a lost sky

hanging from her kite

but on your temple still flows the kiss

that the angel of oblivion scarred you with.