to my children

Written by: Bozhidar Pangelov

At some unnamed night,
 and it will be bright,
 I’ll go away.
 The door I will never
 the flowers will keep
 My children will have fallen asleep
 the most deeply
 covered and caressed
 and somebody will cant to them again
 a cradle song.
 It will be light like in a temple
 and clear like a voice
 in mountains.
 Then I’ll leave
 forgotten all the words…

 A branch in the white snow.