On a mark
of silence:
of silence:
1.
A butterfly counted
my knuckles.
Declared the white
unnecessary.
2.
The wind recounted
to a lake
the color of my eyes.
The red—it said—is a little much.
3.
A tree
hollowed by thunder
painted my mistrust in green.
The bark—it whispered—is not just a cover.
My silence
was not.
-Valentin Dishev,
translated from the Bulgarian
by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer,
The Season of Delicate Hunger:
Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry
(Accents Publishing)
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