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For Cl. Bertrand

Превод: Том Филипс

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I’m coming and going in this town,
like waves of seawater
spill onto the burning shore,
passionately at first,
only then to quietly turn home
into themselves.
In this mystic place,
raised on seven hills by God
not far from the mountains of Orpheus,
your song sounds with great force,
stronger than King Acen’s horse.
And you don’t even suspect
that you leave traces with your words
that mark Bulgaria on the map
of modern-day Europe.
The magic of poetry,
the oracle’s song in the evening
spreads through Old Plovdiv’s streets,
blood flows through the veins
of culture’s living organism,
the Indian in you awakes,
your senses impulsively seize
on fragments of old stories.
And tonight sleeping deeply
I’ll see the red horses of poetry
race across the Plovdiv sky,
flirt wildly with the Moon.
In the morning, exhausted, they’ll stop
before the Gates of the Sun –
they’ll rest, gather strength,
and the Sun’s rays will kiss
your Muse’s eyes.

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