Translated by Veronika Velcheva
How will you write if you are not sincere,
said the poet and took a sip from his glass.
Its bottom glimmers, and the evening slowly sails to
its never-ending repetition, the endless metaphors
about it shedding like golden scales.
I would’ve told him about childhood,
about the unread books, empty days,
about the erstwhile dreams of him, sadly short however,
about the cockroach in the flat and the fear of my mediocrity.
About my brother who is getting older.
The evening dawn lies down on my forehead, but
it is still dark.
I take a sip from my glass and remain silent.
The clocks were mute.
Only one rustled rhythmically,
delicately dark, it
stayed silent and worked in the corner, like a
hunched, beady-eyed blacksmith.
So as to challenge the thing that was moving in it, and
moving me invisibly,
I looked at it with scorn, with
the most diligent coldness, with fear, turnedinside out. And at this moment
(a spark upon an anvil)
laughed three times with its pendulum.
I passed by it with the same scorn and
then I was absorbed in an amber ring.
And the heart of the old oil lamp secretlysank.
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