A poem by Boris Hristov
Translation from Bulgarian: Julieta Kaludova
He bears a scar upon his forehead and always sits on the edge.
He might be tall, but even so the lonely man is small.
He picks up herbs, or with the adze of memories engraves
when he is unemployed, and drags along his worn-out rag.
A horse’s head adorns the field and he will simply go
to gaze at it a little bit, expecting nothing more.
While others shout across the room or talk about the arts,
The lonely man behind his table would catch and free some flies.
But if he scribbles poems, for certain he would leave behind
one little teardrop in your eyes and an incision in your mind…
He has a home and heated soup, but it is so confined
his life, tossed out there like a basket in the corner of a flat.
And should his home with all the tiles turn upside down,
The ashes he may eat, but he will never beg or frown.
What scary fires and what iron he endured in his time –
To fathom, you will have to drink with him a lot of wine…
Just as he walks and wears a stain upon his shirt so neat,
The lonely man into the crowd shall vanish like a bead.
A book he carries in one hand, to heal his aching soul,
But in the other down his pocket he tightly holds a rope.