Dedication | A poem by Petya Dubarova, 1962-79

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.