She is so reticent,
She is like a house,
From which a melody floats,
But no one knows
how many people live in
And the neighbours are never invited.
She is so reticent,
That her cocks don’t crow
But hum;
Her cats run away
to shriek at liberty
In another’s yards.
One white hand
Waters flowers by the window
But nobody’s seen nearly
The ring which gleams.
Isn’t it a drop of water
In geranium’s mossy cupped hands?
She is so reticent,
That the time ever comes in her garden
With a season late.
In her breathe
Forgotten
afternoons,
Quiet nooks, sparrows,
Yellow quinces, splashed by the rain,
And words,
That she will never say.
Thus you will have her –
Yours and hers,
Untrue and chaste.
Translated from Bulgarian by Ludmil Lockanov