ELKA VASILEVA My dream - a bird that's growing bald Was struggling to resist the gravity. Her feathers splattered in the track... The sea had drowned there. How should I guard the flitting down Against the wind erupting from the sands And then create from broken bits of soul At least one single try to fly? ********** My life divides its tangled strings Into two parts of equal size. I already consider dead some things, And others are not worth their price... On top of my July midday I search the line above the rocks - The autumn is so far away, The endless days are all in spots. And in the center of nowhere, what could I see... My poor self - a convict and a hangman... I knot the broken ends as fast as I can Weighing up what my next step should be Translated by Zhivka Ivanova