* * *
they aren't in a hurry, nor do they stop
the sky is flying grey above the gardens
guiding east the shadows of the storm
sometimes they come and find
sometimes they shrink
to weightless dots, soap in your eyes
to icy cracks
yet also pretty
now I recall them prettier
more seldom at the specially appointed places
authored by "the mourners"
and no, I cannot comfort you
just few were salvaged
© Maria Virhov
© Maria Koleva, translated from bulgarian
=============================
© E-magazine LiterNet, 02.08.2011, ¹ 8 (141)