The confession of one an emigrant by Ann Wood
I have been abroad for twenty years.My business here is not bad at all.
I make as much as a dozen bucks.
I work hard, not for a penny.
I forgot about my dear homeland
in his quest to become richer.
The woman who gave birth to me has long been in that world.
I don't know my father; he was a fighter.
He died in Vratsa Prison.
He robbed a bank for empty money.
He was stabbed in a drunken argument.
I got married. The children were born.
Our life in time is a moment.
I lived as a foreigner there in the state,
I kept swearing in Bulgarian.
My wife was a good American.
Such a woman is pure luck.
He loved me; he was my shadow.
There was coziness and order in our home.
I was proud of two sweet daughters,
with a wonderful son, with good friends.
Everyone called me Bulgarian,
happy, smiling; I woke up at dawn.
So I lived in joy and richness; life has served me dessert,
until the memorable day of God, when
the woman took me to a concert.
She heard that Bulgarian artists too
participate in the music tour
and wished with purest thoughts
to make me a little happy, at least.
The curtain lifted. Tired bagpipe.
The drum beats. Something inside me shrank.
And like a lion returning from pride,
I watched the dance turn.
A tense bagpiper played a handgun.
My blood played like crazy.
A boy and a virgin flew away.
The homeland rose in my soul.
Bulgaria is famous for the game.
He jumped forward like a deer.
She shuffled back like a hind.
I could feel the volcano raging inside me.
I saw the Balkans, my home,
it invaded my open chest
nature enchanting, ubiquitous
and it was as if I had been born again.
Tears welled up in his eyes.
Aha, let me cry out loud!
I trembled like a leaf before the beauties!
Only I saw Bulgaria here.
I melted into my mom's smile,
I was again a carefree, cheerful child
and joy as great as the ocean
I felt it growing in my soul.
The woman looked at me in surprise,
but could she understand
for the Bulgarian in this state, I suffered,
only now did I understand it well.
Bulgaria is the mother saint,
the most beloved homeland in the world!
Then the Bulgarian handkerchief
before me, the future drew.
I saw myself as an old man with a white beard,
returned to his native Balkans,
there with grandchildren naughty tree to plant.
Yes, I know that my dream will come true!
Poetry by Ann Wood
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Written on 2022-02-06 at 22:45
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