Song

 

When we were together, we were not.

I was alone with you and with all the animals,

all the cherry blossoms, Chrysanthemums and

the rising sun. Is this Japan? But I’ve never been there.

 

Daylight is just the messenger of the secrets of

the night’s hidden and utter darkness.

Moonlight is just the reflection of the ashamed sun

and nothing else.

Twilight – the hermitage of the unholy things

squatting in the mud, waiting for dark and godly hours.

Love is a turkey when every day is Thanksgiving.

Love is cow in the slaughterhouse, bending down its

head to the ax.

The mountains stand tall and proud, talking in dead

language with the birds in the sky, resembling unknown

hieroglyphs.

Rivers flow with no time left, to the edge of

the horizon.

Logs split back into logs in the deep and still virgin

forests.

And then silence descends.

 

When we were together, we were not.

We tried to be something else,

but that was impossible,

because we were already completed,

and silence that descended was the end of everything.

Or it was the new beginning,

just like that moment when the orchestra conductor

stands still, before the first note of the symphony,

with its baton in the air, above his head,

and then he swings.

 

 

What is This

 

This is not the thing I want,

this is not the thing I don’t need,

this is not the thing that it thinks it is.

 

I sit on the writing table and think

about it. But at the same time I can not

think, therefore what?

 

The wine is decanting, my Gitanes sits unlit

in the ashtray and I watch trough the window

how the misty sadness is clearing over the grove.

I tend to take everything as it is, to make some

sense out of it, some shapeless meaning.

 

And I remember now how when we were with

together, everything around us would cease

existing. Maybe this is it. This everything.

The Cosmos, the Universe, the stars and nothing

else, just pure pleasure, when everything comes

to light. And it, of course, was standing between us.

 

And then, in fact, there was nothing but pure silence.

 

Peycho Kanev

 

Peycho Kanev is the author of 4 poetry collections and two chapbooks, published in USA and Bulgaria. He has won several European awards for his poetry and he’s nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others.

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