Wolves E-Book

Evelina Kovandzhiyska

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

My best poems. I was born in Bulgaria. I have 5 poetry books and many poetry prizes. I write about the life, love, nature. I am like a wolf in my destiny-alone. Tell me what do you think about my poetry. I have made the translation of poems.

Leseprobe

Evelina Kovandzhiyska

Wolves

Poems about love and lifeBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Poetry

I’m digging in the garden of wolves

and looking for a root of hope.

To howl like them in my dark steps

and bite with his big teethes- just for me.

I’m planting the tulip of joy

in the last wolf’s mouth- they are like children.

They know how to love.

I brush their hair; mix it with their last tear.

Only they can understand why I do it.

I am the wolf of spring

and wear dark fate like a wolf.

As mole digs the sun the sky.

It searches rain took off running to the next morning.

The earth is disturbed by the beaks of birds

to germinate our new day.

Loose soil smells of life and wind,

and I trudge sadness on dark roads.

The streets turn somewhere in the sky

where the stars swing of the hair of the fate-

that swarthy with fingers into my arm

and dragging me to the joy.

I long snowdrops to shout after me,

tulips to cry in the rhythm of my soul,

and one red poppy,

which waited last summer

to breathe in my hands until next winter.

The violin shot silence with a cry

and wine whispered stranger tongue.

An old witch spins orb of life,

and her brother- wolf is biting fate to blood.

He doesn’t forgive her for the death

of a small grape vine cut.

Wine tastes bitter

and the snow burns in eyes,

and people passed wordless.

They had not seen such a winter,

when death and wine are intertwined

with thundering dance

and the whole pageant is melting

in snowflakes black with sadness and bitterness.

The scarlet liquid bitters

and Carnival of Souls has become a holiday.

The violin breaks with empty moan

and silence comes with rags

and the entire universal light bathes desperate people.

When carnival of souls is coming

the world is small as a walnut.

I cut the space in nine languages-

directions in which to go. But the world is small and as I do not have nine lives

and will turn on at the first direct to the truth.

Once upon a time the stars shone upon me

and the frogs croaked on the way.

Now I'm a rolling honey cake,

bitten and gnawed to the bone.

They faithfully and bones have life,

but how different can you clench your breath in the bag.

To have for later. For tomorrow.

You suppress your voice

and only the roar of tears remember that you are alive-

until then, until tomorrow. Grit teeth.

It will go away. Breathe with breast of winter.

Watch with the eyes of owls. Speak with the voice of bears. Eventually you will find that the road to life,

the minutes rolled in the hay of your last winter.

A piece sun burnt by the harsh lips of wind

dives in low and my dream blew up in lights.

It was bright and light,

I sank into the hands of stone

to smooth wrinkles of eternity.

Then young vestals sang

about that unattainable vault of heaven,

I prayed, pressed by the ghosts of silence,

and in my dream I was a white river.

I smoothed river stones of

that incessant, stifled, eternal sadness.

I marked by steps of birds

and understood the voice of the oldest tortoise in the world.