Zlatomir Zlatanov: At the grave of Penyo Penev
by Владимир Сабоурин
At the grave of Penyo Penev*
I stood in front of the unfinished block,
which marks the end of the town.
From the one time hill under my feet
I just remember the strong wind of dusk –
unused to the new echo,
it attempts it over again
in a cave of concrete,
where the sounds snap
like the spikes of ghostly dinosaurs.
I’d overtaken the inhabitants, their future,
that’s why I looked a little lonely.
But to become a builder
and to take the fight like the heart of your body,
to vitally defend tomorrow’s life in you,
like the clueless tree guards the falcon –
isn’t this what the old masters study
who die young.
The doors are missing, so as to distinguish
our exhausted steps in the night,
and on the balcony the girl isn’t holding
the heavy basket of laundered skirts,
nor does the old girl…
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