Walnut by Stanka Parusheva traslated by Ann Wood

It is my innate difference.
Like a sickle he asked me.
I will reach the great Nothing,
like a walnut of thunder struck.
A small, burnt tortoise,
the sign behind me will remain.
I was not a devil, not a saint -
I was a man of life weary.

Poetry by antoniya katelieva-wood The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 83 times
Written on 2017-12-01 at 16:42

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