one more Petrov

One more from Valeri Petrov, translation again mine:

The carkey

Late last night as I parked the car at home,
I dropped the carkey in the dark,

This morning I went out around seven to find the,
And looked perplexed at the pavement in front of the house -

Toothy little leaves had covered the whole area by the car
And each of them looked like a little copper key!

And it's plenty cold, smoke curling out of chimneys,
But between the rows of houses the skies are blue,

And without realizing it, I've already gone into the park
And the car is far away and dim in the darkness,

And it's bright and quiet, with that smell of Fall
The moist smell of decay, yet pleasant and fresh!

And I feel how my life has passed through me
In a fast torrent, a kaleidoscopic spinning.

Valeri Petrov, in memoriam

Two Lads

I saw two young buddies
In front of a shop with two electric guitars.
The guitars had strings and buttons,
The lads were in jeans with pockets.
The guitars were glossy black,
The lads were entirely enthralled
And stood transfixed
In front of the counter,
Their cheeks sucked in in anticipation and fright:
That the two guitars
Would be theirs at some point;
That no other will manage
To get them first!
And over here, from the lads,
And over there, from the guitars,
There flowed a dialog without words
And it was so sad - so sad that
We, busy with purchases of beds and bedspreads,
Judged them harshly: "what delinquents!"
And don't see how they, having taken up their guitars,
With bandanas and bright shirts,
Float through the roof and fly towards heaven,
Higher, higher, up there somewhere,
Where Armstrong the god says to them with his raspy voice:
"Come on! Where you been? Can't manage without you!"

-Valeri Petrov, in memoriam. Translation mine.

Roman Kisyov: "They said..."

They said:
A poet doesn't feed a household

They said:
A poet can feed
Only the worms

O, no -
The poet feeds the pigeons
The poet feeds the eagles
The poet feeds the angels
The poet feeds the hearts
    of people still hungry
For Truth and Light.
With but five verses
The poet can feed the multitudes.

Roman Kisyov





Казаха:
поет къща не храни

Казаха:
Поетът може само
Червейте да нахрани

О не -
Поетът гълъбите храни
Поетът орлите храни
Поетът ангелите храни
Поетът сърцата храни -
    сърцата на хората
Който все още са гладни
За Истина и Светлина
Поетът може с пет стиха
Хиляди да нахрани

Роман Кисьов