Winter Rain
Oh, how this winter rain would glide along,
descending down the landscape’s bristly curves…
It’s waiting just for our “Come on!”,
but simply, no one’s there to say the words.
Beneath, through the November mist at last,
the color-yielding trees are quiet now,
renouncing their leaves and summer past
and pounding on the sky with bare boughs.
And thus renounced, we gather bitter taste
to ourselves, to our old addresses.
And so it falls again, but not that rain –
begotten, not created, of one essence.
Translated from the Bulgarian by Diana Stefanova
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