The Imam Runs only to the Mosque

Written by: Bozhidar Pangelov

Will you break off with me,
my beloved,
morsel for morsel laddu*?
My dream doesn’t come to me, 
my bed is divided,
my heart – dry,
fire is rankling me.
You’ll regret,
my beloved,
if you taste it –
outside it’s sweet
inside – bitter.
Twice more,
my beloved,
your tear will run fast
if you pass me by scornfully.
In my chest
I wear a diamond of snake,
a lion-hair on my wrist,
a wealth of Brahman 
in my head.
Will someone take them, gifted
someone else but my death?

Ah, my beloved,
marry me.

*a round syrup sweet made of gram floor