To My Children
At some unnamed night,
and it will be bright,
I’ll go away.
The door I will never
close
the flowers will keep
fragrance.
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.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2012
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