I Write

Written by: Bozhidar Pangelov

I write –
on autumn leaves,
when the sun is 
alive
The grass
is still 
fragrant.
And you are a dream which 
I won’t
tell about.
My eyes are collecting colorful rains.
As in the mad years,
when 
I ran with a cloth
to bandage the light.
The wings have left
and the golden sparkles which
you are writing with today,
without even knowing…

A shed
feather of Fudjiama.