Sometimes
it is light at dawn,
then it gets dark.
The leaves of the chestnut are trembling.
Hardly they are trembling.
Somebody is speaking to the roots,
stroking the bark shaky,
with eyes like poppies.
And he is crying…
He is watering the ground
or is speaking to the faces
behind the mirror.
The pail is hitting against the walls
of a well.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment