The Boy With the Exhausted Wings
The boy with the exhausted wings remains,
the mirror doesn’t show a friend reflected.
Betrayal is predictably effective.
And guilt is carrying all too many names.
The boy with the exhausted wings remains –
and do you know him, son of angels fair?
What happened to the common past you shared –
did you forget, or fail to understand
the healing flowers, walls of tender stone,
the lips, their bruises from the silence peeling?
The bird out of the cage he will be freeing,
but will he resurrect himself, alone?
The bird will fly above the fallen town ahead,
above the dreams of people bleeding slowly
and, knowing that she’s wingless, she’ll be falling
into a soul – as simple as our bread.
The boy with the exhausted wings remains.
His memory to no one he will bare.
The legs of hope are short – and everywhere
she walks upon familiar terrain;
the flame is burning in her fragile hand,
the remnants of the new beginning pour horizons.
And out of every mirror he is rising –
the boy with the exhausted wings, again.
Translated from the Bulgarian by Diana Stefanova
Copyright © Plamen Sivov | Year Posted 2017
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