* * *
language gone lame
each attempt at writing poetry - pointless
there is glass between myself and life
its warm muzzle cannot reach me
I do not match myself
I am my own monument
wrapped in cellophane through praising and myths
I call myself with every step
the flies take away my only name
to the green sea of wheat
twenty-eight cows turn their heads slowly
the wet look in their eyes shatters
the glass into salt
and my tongue makes a first step on its own
I am not your mother
I am the cow that licks
the stone of salt
from the other side of the river
go
© Rene Karabash
© Youliana Todorova - translated from bulgarian
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© E-magazine LiterNet, 27.07.2020, ¹ 7 (248)