To a Critic
November 20, 2007
These verses – warm drops of blood,
A breath of the laughter of green mountain streams,
Birds of blue threads on a child’s apron,
Sparks of a hit of horse hoofs
over insane physical formulas,
Slaps from the old Bulgarians
on the comfortable cheeks of their grandsons,
Tender messages to my frail successor –
These verses –
Dark and bright like the day and the night,
Simple and complex like the grass and the people, –
Do not refer to you.
You were taught to be a judge,
Reasonable in the gesture and the calculation –
And, with your eyes fixed on a small bait,
To stumble at your mother’s grave.
No one had ever taught me
How to wake up at nights and ask my eyes:
“What did you see out there?”
“Why is hope black
And death – white?”
“Why they kill the poets,
Either at once, or bit by bit?”
“Why man raises,
After he had fallen?”
Who am I?
I am a somber boy,
Who keeps having faith,
In spite of your cheerful presence.
I take bits of you