The Years Pass
The years pass – wings –
the valleys grow
and the picks lose the silhouette clear.
Who’s hitting furiously the horses young,
the sky who has there lit?
Not me! Not me!
Me and you, sat on a short shore
along the path, sunk in myrtles
and we’re looking at the love,
in that endless mirror.
And somewhere young girls
are singing a refrain in low voice
and giant woods are losing root.
Horses are tearing in sulphur and volcanoes.
Inside of me – the sea is murmuring.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2010
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