Bistra Nikolova

Poetry

I remember

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My Beautiful Town

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My beautiful town, sunny and calm –

wide streets, parks and fluffy clouds,

people chatting over everyday life in

cafes, where time spreads its hours fair.

 

It’s easy to forget that the land

we live in is old enough

to throw a bridge, a passage

through time. A hidden gem

polished by the winds and warmed

in sunny beams. A gem that requires

care, knowledge and esteem to beam.

 

The Old Town, huddled around,

a cobbled quilt on the ground.

A legacy left from the Roman Empire,

brick walls, ruins echoed through time

mixed with Middle Age Ottoman reign.

An alternation of rise and crime.

Bulgarian spirit and strong will

survived regardless the steel

beheaded who dared to disbelieve

the invaders stole their dream.

My town, still there shows no sign

of approval or disfavour.

The Amphitheatre on the top –

arena once, now a concert floor –

welcomes people from everywhere

to sing, act, spread a word and be aware

of the new bridge we build to bequeath

to generations to come; an art to defeat

old demons and despair.

 

We changed his name during the time.

Philippopolis, Trimontium, Plovdiv.

We transformed his space, cut his veins,

hardened his skin with asphalt and concrete,

suffocated his lungs with vehicles and planes.

We littered the forests, the river and lake.

 

We’ve been difficult children, we’ve hurt

our land. But we’ve tried our best.

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