In memory of Danila Stoyanova (1962-1984)
In the hurricane, amidst the stubble
the bright bluebell, nothing’s eye,
is too small for the lightning to strike.
The sycamores, red-hot, hiss in the rain,
a bolt strikes the field, rocks are scalded. . . .
Unable to take cover, the flower stands watch
and at last becomes the blue sky.
Sky – short-lived and fragile flower,
brightened by magnetic storms,
breathing in the darkness, blue atop green,
it flickers, blooms, fades,
beholds the death of stars.
In the horror of the dark cosmos
who blew in the seed of the sky?
Who loves all fleeting things –
a ray of sun, each conception,
the history of the earth itself?
He could be as small as the tear
that for a moment brims in your eye
in the storms of constant parting:
a flashing beacon in the sea of death.
Translated by the author with Henry Taylor