Dedication / Winter Holidays | Petya Dubarova, 1962 -1979


Petya Dubarova


On chilly night, when drunk on rum,
sleep wallows in my attic room,
the moon grows darker from its sins,
when, strangled upon night’s sharp rim,
right there – above me – fear hangs,
it’s then I offer my pale hand
to you – you strange and furtive man
so tame, wild and swarthy, very handsome,
and only nineteen years this fall,
but having seen and knowing all,
with your independent creed,
yet searching for me – mine indeed,
and having fallen, wept and erred,
but your boyish tenderness preserved –
to take my domineering hand:
I make you brave, feel more a man.
We’ll wash the moon of sin. Come, dear,
we’ll rid ourselves of the corpse of fear,
and with the voice of a ship we’ll blast –
the kind, night voice of my Bourgas.
And when the night backs with the moon
and when the sun showers treasure down
then having outgrown your fantasy
you’ll set off smiling, next to me.


Petya Dubarova and friends

Winter Holidays

They melted like snow in my hair,
then died like a cropped out plait.
My panting day is dreaming they’re here,
my morning pursues them to stay.

Heaping snow in my cave of delight,
I hide some image there, a secret.
Then textbooks overcloud my sight
and swooping tests speed up to hit me.

Sweet holidays, I yearn to have you
in memories that branch like vines,
and in my winter herbarium keep you
like a miniature tear of ice.

tr. D. D. Wilson
collection The Sea and Me

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