RAVENS
I refuse to count the birds,
perched upon your shoulders.
I refuse to compete with them.
I refuse to feed them - with words,
fears and other seeds.
When you are coming towards me,
it is not you I see first, but them:
a whole flock of hungry ravens,
nesting in your forehead.
You feel them, yet you do not know
that they're there.
It is you I kiss,
but a heavy clap of wings
that moves the air.
My arms are pecked all raw.
Only when you sleep
they take off.
Then I stand guard
by you, as you sleep.
I will wait a little longer
for the air to turn all black.
Tarred feathers
to float in all directions
in the room.
Here are my lips.
The knife is
in my hand.
© Patricia Nikolova
© Andrey Filipov, translated from bulgarian
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© E-magazine LiterNet, 09.08.2018, ¹ 8 (225)