Counting
For all murdered children
That’s this night.
A flame is flaring up hardly.
A box of matches. Does it still
Indeed exist?
And a candle.
I forget to count
(not the cries – the tries
of the waken up sense)
the stars that are falling…
Lambs
one
… two
… three
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2011
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