IN MEMORIAM

Valeri Petrov

(1920 - 2014)

ХВЪРЧАЩИТЕ ХОРА

Те не идват от Космоса, те родени са тук,
но сърцата им просто са по-кристални от звук,
и виж - ето ги, литват над балкона с пране,
над калта, над сгурията в двора,
и добре, че се срещат единици поне
от рода на хвърчащите хора.

А ний бутаме някак си, и жени ни  влекат,
а ний пием коняка си в битов някакъв кът
и говорим за глупости, важно вирейки нос
или с израз на мъдра умора,
и изобщо, стараем се да не става въпрос
за рода на хвърчащите хора.

И е вярно, че те не са от реалния свят.
Не се срещат на тениса, нямат собствен фиат,
но защо ли тогава нещо тук ни боли
щом ги видим да литват в простора -
да не би да ни спомнят, че и ний сме били
от рода на хвърчащите хора?

THE FLYING FOLK

They don’t come from space. They too are earthbound,
but their hearts ring clearer even than sound,
and behold them, they fly over the laundry hung out,
over the cinder and dirt in the street and the yard,
and it’s good we can meet hereabouts
at least a few of the flying folk tribe.

Yet we somehow keep going, and we love womanizing
and we drink our brandy and enjoy fantasizing,
and talk stuff and nonsense, and give ourselves airs
or show bored expression of wisdom or jibe,
and pretend by and large we are not aware
of the presence of the flying folk tribe.

And it’s true they are not from the actual world.
You won’t see them at the golf course or driving a Ford.
Then why do we feel this inexplicable pang
when we see them take flight far and wide?
Could it be they remind us once we also belonged
to the kin of the flying folk tribe?

AMIDST ELECTRONICS

This century of ours has driven us to a state,
where man’s become totally mixed up of late.
As I'd just closed my eyes in the summer's noontide,
an e-signal reached my drowsy mind
like some cooing… Half asleep I jump to my feet
but I can't find the coo's hidden retreat.
The telephone's dumb and the mobile keeps mum,
the problem is not in the PC. How come!
I look out the window with a scary heart,
lest – as it happens – they swipe my car,
And I find out the reason in the lime thickly leafed:
It turned out, a turtledove was cooing indeed.

Translated by Valentin Krustev