TRIPPING OF MISTS traslated by Ann Wood
TRIPPING OF MISTSby Ivaylo Terziiski
Fortunately, all the bills didn't turn out simple:
mail Laura still thorny tomb of Petrarch.
And it rises above us - in the days of barren fasting,
of eternal passion and longing - the triumphal arch.
If they ask about me, tell them that I am the Tailor,
who sews for you a long linen robe, but first
let me take a measure of your hips, which in the twilight
it slips away every time - like a clever trout.
Let me know how sharp your breasts are at night
they tear the thin hem of my righteous thoughts
and the gutter of the supposedly ordered Cosmos is filled
with the one stopped at the throat, there is no sigh: where are you.
I secretly sewed in the narrow pocket of last summer
any of your smiles and fears or cries are unnecessary.
I will take a dose of them every morning when
I wake up on the other side of the earth: without you.
And I sing to you, drunk with rapture or weakness, I stagger carelessly,
I have deafened the ears of all the sirens alone.
Therefore bless the tailor who has diligently trembled the mists
to enter, love, through the grand entrance of life!
Poetry by Ann Wood
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Written on 2021-02-06 at 23:31
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