(For Mihail Rendzhov’s clay flute)
We’d tread the path under our feet
With such certainty, as if
Rambling for days on end
Toward the nearest Babylon –
And somewhere, at half the distance
We’d stop a little, as
To listen intently
To the sounds of the magic clay flute…
In which mind was it conceived,
Under what fingers was it crafted
That trivial piece of clay,
That miraculous flute,
Oval,
Oblong,
Bony,
With ten holes,
For ten musical keys,
Behind which secretly peer
The eternally alert sounds
Of the unlocked sweetness,
In which one can hear the soul,
Whispering and wailing…
Breathe in with your lungs
You bishop (of the words) from
the Bregalnitsa and Nerezi
To hear your soul, as
I’ll again, again and yet again
Wonder at midnight
Up the Pchinja river,
From Kozhle I’ll climb on foot
Up to the Prohor Pchinski monastery,
I’ll tread along goats’ paths,
I’ll veer through the thicket
All the way to the balconies of sunrise
Only to hear your song
Which remained hovering
In the air near the monastery,
parted in musical intervals
And trembling
Like incomprehensible guilt,
There,
In the yard of the dwellings,
You, my friend, who excite the soul,
You, my friend, your highness
With a clay flute.
(Prohor Pchinski, October, 1989)