Blesok no. 114-115, July-August, 2017


Mitko Apostolov

Summer night

Over there is the bark; underneath it
I lost my virginity with the morning;
It’s clear; a bit chilly.
Linen trees spread their branches, wild chestnuts bloom.
A satellite blossoms on the sky
like a violet.
Even if we say that the sky cannot be divided to equal parts
or pieces unequal to each other,
the river moon springs from only one of them, the others cannot even sprinkle stardust.
What a great night not to be forgotten.

Saturday in July

That’s how it was, indeed.
Like a birthday to peace,
celebrations in the grass, dancing in the grass.
The high grass greeted them.
They were even
barefoot, their hair smeared with paint, their faces as well.
They didn’t even care for tomorrow,
the day after tomorrow, the night that fell, the day that dawned, the rain
on their clothes already gone dry.

* * *

Everything calms down after the party.
People hold hands as they cross the street.
We go home.
I see you waiting for me to put you to sleep.
You fall asleep. Everything is quiet.
And then I start writing about love:
you small state of linen trees,
you lightest of rivers, you warm rainbow.


The wind blows in the savanna,
the shamans meet
for the first and last time
after so many full moons that passed;
the tribes found out about the affairs between the good wind
and the sails of wandering shops,
because of this coming storm,
the coffee and fabric smuggles
postponed their midnight shipment.
In Africa,
it might rain in the deserts.
There will be an eternal truce,
the extinct animals will return,
the jungle will go wild with life…
The wheat is filled with bugs, it’s alive;
it remembers you better than the printing shops over here
the baobabs have expected you for centuries,
or whatever the hell there’s in Africa,
or whatever the hell there’s in Africa,
whatever the hell you do in Africa,
Africa that knows you are coming there.


A monster moans on the sky, a storm
swings a swing that swings empty
irritated like a hungry animal
caught in a trap.

Travelling I am alone.
I travel, although it’s cold, and
I carefully watch my skin
from peeling and rainforests

As the sky crunches and crumbles in lightnings and dusty water,
I’ve caught a shadow disease
and the sorcerers called it a shadow syndrome.

I wasn’t cured,
I don’t know if I really see a storm
or I’m just imagining it.


Reeds rolling along the lake,
in the cricket chirp,
in the firebug forest
it smells of your water.
it’s beautiful like this.
Like this, the fire finds water
that burns. Like this, the water found
fire that it doesn’t extinguish,
but it enflames it,
and feeds it like
a lightning splitting into two,
and a lightning splitting into four,
and a lightning extinguishing between
the air and the soil.

So many sad colors and sounds

Colored like tea and heaven,
and still your eyes are sad
as if August has left them.
One can even see a wave splashing there,
a long tide approaching.

Half a millimeter next to you, actually;
always; everywhere; continuously it smells of a hot day or dry hay,
as if under… a glass shadow.
Here, it’s morning now. Red as a cork soaked in wine.
The skies roll in their humidity
and up there;
a small flock of small birds flies looking for warm air.

All of this above shine in your pupil as a needle.
I find it strange too,
how all of this is beautiful to me.

created by