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Butterfly Story

Ferns are quietly flapping

And bring frightful news,

How birds to south are flying

And they never do return.


With them, the song migrates,

Ugly, uncaressed,

And only cry from naked bird

Is scattered through the space.


Therefore, the book that’s open

At last nobody read

And there was no one to close it

Or shut its eyes in the end.


Because every story falls

Mercilessly, like a knight

And its proud deed of valor

Fleets away like a butterfly.



(Translation from the Bulgarian version by Tsvetelina Antova)


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