by Bozhidar Pangelov |
Our love isn’t at ease,
just like the wind in white acacias
and like a bead on child’s hand,
it’s not at ease.
In it they miss – wonderlands,
delights, flame and solace.
And none of us will call it my own
before it passes us on slightly.
And it will stay somewhere – far away,
And yellow leaves will whisper in snows.
Our love isn’t at ease.
It isn’t at ease.