Speaking languages from past lives, going backwards towards your homelands, finding yourself into mountains...and into someone's eyes.
Native language! The language of your soul. Read it in new poems of our distant friend Stanislav Li.

Iva Spiridonova

~

*
east to west
...is a mountainous hillside.

the sun rises
towards the ancestral homeland.

I've been watching for a long time...

~

*
native language
enters the soul
with your mother's milk,
with fairy tales from Grandma's lips,
instructions
grandfather and father,
lovingly
brothers and sisters,
but if you're
differently
learning the language
of your tribe,
is it possible
to call you
a happy man?

~

*
In the field
of golden sunflowers
the woman goes...
wide straw hat
on her head.
reminds me of a pointed umbrella
coming, bending over in front of
coloured flags, -
scarecrows
in a simple shirt,
rough pants.
Who is she to me
and where does she go,
sometimes by showing up
it's disappearing, isn't it?

~

*
a cafe in the mountains,
where you and I are going.
came in for coffee,
I guess now
drowning in the snow...
and the old man is the master,
just like last year
sits apart
reading the paper...

~

*
When I pass by
that place,
where the sea stretches
a few kilometers away,
unwittingly turning my head,
and the water surface
always smiling
sunlight.
Behind it
a distant coastline,
It's like it's drawn
with a school ruler...
and snowy peaks
stretching out one by one.
I'm sorry, at this time
I'm forgetting about you
and pretend like
I'm listening attentively
to your endless
monologue.

~

*
Not because of spring...
that in the spring
the snow has broken
and the mountains have wrapped up
into light green silk,
that the flowers have blossomed
and butterflies spinning,
but because you're the one
I dreamt about it
just like last time,
about that...
the time of year!

~

*
Ah, how noisy,
the branches of a blooming plum.
wind trembles
and the petals are tearing
and not for long at all,
as if he'd been drinking
with wine friends,
I'm forgetting.
I'm the burden of life...

~

*
tired
from being on earth,
...raise your eyes
to the spring sky,
...then behind the branches
of cherry blossoms,
you see it
as it is itself,
cloudy,
trying to comfort you:
" Sounds like a bird's-eye
with votes!"

~

*
Five years old,
Grandma was wearing
me on her back,
her shoulders are remembered...
my childhood

~

*
I'm the one on the edge of my family...
I said goodbye forever,
but in the autumn days,
a troubled soul
from centuries-old poplars
flies over the leaves,
and your garden is covering up...

Списание „Нова асоциална поезия“, бр. 22, септември, 2019