They touch down in the landscape lightly,
immaculately beautiful butterflies of Spring,
like trembling sighs,
like sky flowers;
alight innocently on the greenery
which was eaten to death last year
by rapacious caterpillars
to give wings to this beauty –
which now, however, gives you the right
to start running, eagerly, exactly as if netted by madness,
yet have no-one wonder
what happened to your common sense.
Sky-Rock
(Небесен камен)
It’s plunged into my field
as into a mother’s arms:
this rock escaped
from the stars’ chain.
The dangerous adventures
of its long wandering
have polished it to the utmost,
refined it to its core.
Of an intense heat
it’s retained only the colour red.
Now it listens, calmly,
to its own internal orbit.
It’s never been so vulnerable
as in my hands;
what outer space couldn’t do to it
I can.
I could shatter it with a hammer,
turning it into powder
to dip my bread in
like a cure for vertigo.
I could –
but I don’t want to
because of the great similarity
which evidently connects us.
It comes down to one thing:
what accidental justice
and what mad luck
to be on this Earth!