Marin Angel Lazarov - Poetic cycle
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MAL poems
THE WANDERER
In the silence, where the burning mist rages,
The wanderer's eyes glide lonely,
Before the gentle mask of deadly evil
He is gentle and wide open.
Far away, between the curves of long shadows,
His plea stretches to the sky,
From diligently rhymed words and ideas
Between sounds it melts blindly...
Well, here, on earth, the spirit will rise high,
Cancelling the letter of dead truth.
But yesterday's gods will catch up with him,
Roughly kneading new flour...
THE ROOM
The white moonlit room
In quiet and gentle radiance
A song in a dream will be remembered,
With music quieter than breath.
The white starry room –
A sleepy eternal kingdom.
What you wished for will come true.
So your dreams were not in vain.
White sad room.
Nameless cold light.
There, among the stars, only the face
Of hopeless beauty will hide.
A white, dark room
Shines, remaining in the mist,
Memories will open for a moment,
Slip away into a shimmering shadow.
A white, pure room.
The song sounds as always.
My dear mother will lean over,
Like a star above a cradle.
CHAOS
Bloody collapse
Don't push it away with your palms.
That's the role of an idiot.
But who would let him play it
In a sensible world!
And your palms hurt.
In the transparent light of day
Shadows fall, freezing
In a burst of love.
Faith with its wayward likeness
Fly far away to the south
Or to the north.
Does it matter where!
The sun sparkles,
As if blushing from the wounds of scales
Of a red fish.
The deceitful white colour
Flows down from the multicoloured picture,
Forgotten in the rain.
And the wind, look,
Will mix everything up –
A dangerous lull –
Chaos is already swarming
With possible impossibilities.
IT'S ALL OVER
They said, “It's all over”.
I got up,
Put on my old raincoat,
Went out the door
And still couldn't understand
What was missing.
I tried to remember
And discovered that I had lost my memory.
Old paintings dripped
From the walls of my home,
And blurred spots
Remained fresh.
The paint seemed wet,
Quite new —
Its smell strangely excited me.
I looked down at my feet
And saw a worm.
It was rushing somewhere,
Bending in its own way
And picking up speed.
I also quickened my pace
And noticed new beauty around me,
Apparently, it had been treated badly
More than once.
The wind whipped my face
With the wrinkled palms of leaves.
The road was deserted.
I was in a hurry everywhere.
I remembered the old joys of freedom,
Fainted after sharp turns
And began to understand
That I didn't want to live again.
A belated comet's trail —
A few words in the nameless sky:
‘It's all over.’
And now I lie in the ground,
Humming a forgotten love song.
Beautiful, isn't it?
OH, HOW I WISH...
Oh, how I wish,
Stepping on my shadow,
To be free!
To walk the streets with girls
And, turning my pockets inside out,
With a smile to the beggar
Show them the holes.
Counting the clouds,
Giving them names,
Until my neck goes numb.
Then looking down at my feet
And being able to distinguish
Among the ants,
Where the woman is and where the man is.
Passing by an unfamiliar courtyard,
By the smell of the dustbin
Knowing what was for dinner in the house.
Run without feeling your feet.
And settle down on a spacious slope,
Without fear of getting dirty in the dirt.
To sit without moving,
Only catching mosquitoes with my lips
Until the moon appears
With its hints of shadows.
And finally, to fall asleep
And dream
That the sun will inevitably
Bring me back tomorrow
My shadow.
THE IMAGINARY FLAG
The imaginary flag
Before it became a flag
It was a piece of cloth
Endlessly indifferent
It could have been
A thin tablecloth
Worn thin by elbows
The secret freedom of a dress
Hiding enchanting femininity
Even a torn handkerchief
By memory and oblivion
It could have been something else
It hardly makes sense
To clash the crowds
Like madmen
One against the other
Different and cold
Souls blue and red
Like a curse
That freedom
Is black or white
Meaninglessness spilled
I AM EMBRACED BY TWO ARMS
I am embraced by two arms.
And not just today.
For a long time
tears of sick flesh have been sparkling in my eyes.
The direction leads me pale, and faith is slow.
It limps through the night on a slippery road.
They offered love. I constantly gather debris.
Countless false words remain.
Loneliness wanders beside me.
A hungry dog
struggles to gnaw on the poet's bone.
Beautiful letters arrive in my depths.
Head bowed, I spew beauty.
Exquisite hands lift my forehead.
My gaze is cloudy in the clear water.
Bruised, blown by the wind, I stagger.
My soul, a closed world, crawls.
The song of hunger sounds like a wolf to me.
The burning candle hangs, exhausted, behind me.
Marin Angel Lazarov
