I think they Rodino and hear as music moan at me,
your bedside trees kiss and meet the down of birds captured.
Report peasant pain became the straw in rural vestibule,
a small and not very strong, a Bulgarian anti-Jesus.
who walked by you bride with dagger and Thracian bag
and adolescent still fit in zigzag of Thy fate.
And when you burst over an autumn new dawn,
its quiet poetic lot, he chose misery and doom.
With this selection worrisome and complex I ask you above all adversities and
over my grave poor put in midnight blue stars.