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Yrs i go to his pays at our local theater too

The curve of your eyes - La courbe de tes yeux . Paul Eluard


The curve of your eyes goes around my heart,
A round of dance and sweetness,
Halo of time, nocturnal and safe cradle,
And if I don’t know any more all that I’ve lived through
It’s because I haven’t always been seen by you.

Leaves of day and scum of dew,
Reeds of the wind, perfumed smiles,
Wings covering the world with light,
Ships filled with the sky and the sea,
Hunters of noises and sources of colors,

Perfumes bloomed from a brood of dawns
That always lies on the straw of the stars,
As the day depends on innocence
The whole world depends on your pure eyes
And all my blood flows in their looks.

Against my love shall be as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travelled on to age's steepy night;
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

WS

"The best of sorrows"

by Maria Doneva



The sorrow in a corner bleak
sat, knitting from emotion
a fluffy scarf, with patience meek,
misguided by the notion

that if she waited in profound
and silent reminiscing,
without apparent sign or sound
of living or existing,

she’d be The Best of Sorrows, then,
more honey-like in pleasure…
The sorrow waited – until when?
How long would be the measure?

Would she be loved? Perhaps embraced,
affection often given?
Would all the hurting get erased?
Or easier, the living?

A coldness on the corner fell;
she wrapped her scarf and shivered.
But someone saw her – in a spell,
the air brightly glimmered.

And someone welcomed her inside.
Pronounced her, made her stronger.
She didn’t know the reason why,
but she was sad no longer.

The sorrow, seemingly the same,
now had a ripe, new sweetness –
how easier her breath became,
resembled joy completely.

Distractedly, she leapt away
a slice of cake to garnish,
when all her darkness had exhaled,
she laughed and quickly vanished.

"Nocturne"

by Plamen Sivov



She always enters on her own,
arrives on days of cloudless lightness.
The jug of water fills alone
and her initials in the sky keeps writing.

She washes all the old regrets
and does the ironing with patience.
In forecasts quiet weather is expected
when quiet times with her begin descending.

And it will always be the same –
the evening shedding drops in placid gardens.
That special silence bearing her name
waits for your conversation starting.

The setting rays of sunlight find her still
and shades of twilight start to kiss her faintly.
A pencil point, a landscape, color filled –
a woman your entire life is painting.

A sign to you is given not to speak,
perhaps it’s not the time for idle chatter.
And seeing through the eyes of you, she’ll weep;
and breathing through the lungs of you, she’ll matter.

You lost yourself within her fading trace
and out of wisdom failed to keep the secret.
You lost yourself, but know this much is given:
and it will always be the same.

I like that.