Hope

Written by: Bozhidar Pangelov

Oh, the morns – with the freshness
of the birds.
That child, that used to jump
like at hopscotch
(not to step over shadows).
The florescence of the distant almonds …
And those wild sunflowers
I gift to you
(on my palms the wind
is coming down).
Words meaning nothing
as:
“Lazarus, come out!” 
God!
Grant Hopes.