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.