The minutes pass by

Panting, the minutes aproach the final –

and i intermittently breathe with them

and so I wish to grab the medal –
Moon yellow midst the stardust.
The day is runaway – but not for the athletes –
for me, for you, for all of us –
pragmatists, unbelievers and poets
and the lovers in the secretive hour.
The day challenges and involves us
in the ceaseless play of the senses.
The day normally crosses
with sudden turns of fate.
That’s why at the end of the trail
minutes are so busy –
their task is perhaps the most difficult –
to break the thread, which hold us tied
to runaway of every other day.
To patch up our wings, torn,
(poor, dear, our),
to have a sun-splashed tomorrow …

Author and translator from Bulgarian: ©Borislava Boneva


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