Our Love
Our love isn’t at ease,
just like the wind in white acacias
and like a bead on child’s hand,
it’s not at ease.
In it they miss – wonderlands,
delights, flame and solace.
And none of us will call it my own
before it passes us on slightly.
And it will stay somewhere – far away,
unapproachable, uneasy.
And yellow leaves will whisper in snows.
Our love isn’t at ease.
It isn’t at ease.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2011
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