The Girl Who Fresh
The girl, who fresh
like a germ among the dark olives,
is waving slightly for hello,
is opening up.
You cannot guess
the color of her delicate garment,
the laughter of the wind touching
her tender skin.
A yellow bee is whirring …
Lending an ear above waters of
your voice
and forgotten
my heart of
an old robber,
I tuck in hollows of my hands –
a drop.
And I am trying
not to shiver.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2015
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