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Our Home

Our home is silent now.

There droned dark vines,

exchanging their secrets

as if they were dreamy willows.


All night, in desert like gardens,

the clear moon reaped chaste words,

and clean, white hearts,

that had not yet seen the day,

listened in silence.


Bleached dawns

we expire pitiless

with the first rays of the sun.


Amidst an endless desert,

timid and tender,

wanders my song.



Tranlated by Lyubomir Uzunov


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