Blaga Dimitrova
Translated from the Bulgarian by Ludmilla G. Popova-Wightman & Elizabeth A. Socolow


The silhouette of a love,
refracted in my memory—
rootless seaweed
carried from far away
on a warm current.

How much bargaining with circumstance,
how many devious moves,
how much struggle with ourselves
and risk and recklessness
for just one meeting.

So close—the sea, jumping out of itself,
and again subsiding to its own element.
Around us—tourists,
shrieking cutouts
on the boiling background.

Only the two of us are quiet—
a small island amid the chaos,
so stormless, almost a mirage,
set against reality,
against your ticket home,
against tomorrow.


I doubt my faith
in my lack of faith,

that my life was a waking
between two dreams,

that my breath, taken from the air
will return to the air,

that I will catch the moment of death,
when my whole life was only a moment.

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