Is it possible to stay eighteen forever
inside this house which was the definition
of darkness,
reading books of pain and happiness,
looking through the window at
the other darkness outside?
And I’m still reading, still writing
in these endless hours,
holding in my palm the little
light there is,
the little love left in this place,
where I’m still waiting, still writing
the book of your life.

COUNTING DOWN

The night is falling very slowly.
By the long highway the hitchhiker
sticks out his thumb.

He wants to go to some strange place
where no one has gone before.
Let’s leave him that way.

In the backyard the dogs are
sleeping or maybe they are dead.
The crows on the branches above are silent.

Back in my dark room I look at my fingers and
count only 9 and start to scream. Then someone
enters with my forefinger on his lips. Shhh—

For every second that the clock is
counting down, it suffered a whole year.
Time hurts it, right between
its hands, pointing to the sky right now,

as if praying. Water. What can be said
about the water? It flows endlessly near
the shores of eternity and does not take
any form. It's just what it is – emanation

of infinity. Just like a bee that flies through
the vast poppy field of life, carrying its
golden treasure. And then it’s gone forever.

And then what can be said about the last
box of the calendar in the sky? Its sides are
endless and they extend to join in us,
right in the middle where the big X is. 

Peycho Kanev, Bulgaria and Chicago