The days have grown – the light lingers longer on the walls. February is still here, but it is giving way – the cold is milder, and the shadows in the park seem to have a different depth. Nothing special, someone might say. Day after day – the calendar does
FEMALE LANDSCAPE February. The branches are stripped down to bark and cold air; the vineyards breathe beneath the snow like sealed letters; the wine matures in the dark, sweet and heavy, remembering kisses no one has seen and words no one has spoken. The earth is hard,
THE BUFFALO COW The summers in Bulgaria were long – like absent-minded afternoon light above a sunny, southern sea. I spent them in the village with my grandmother and grandfather, in Slivovitsa, in the Veliko Tarnovo region – a place where August did not arrive, but settled lazily into the
PINK AMONG THE GRAY CLOUDS Outside, the sky is gray – not the dramatic gray of a storm, but an even, worn, almost moodless gray. On the street there is a large puddle, also gray, in which the sky has collapsed and now lies motionless, like a tired thought. But
THE LOVE THAT CARRIES ME They say that once love has manifested, it cannot be forgotten. But this familiar phrase is true only if we have first agreed on which love we are talking about. Because love is not a single-colored fabric, but a complex textile – with a warp
LOVE IN THE DESERT OF THE SOUL Love is different. It does not submit to rules, does not recognize templates, and does not fit into frames. Everyone loves in their own way – like an artist who chooses colors according to the pulse of the morning light; like a river
POINT OF LIGHT I was a nine–ten-year-old child. I was ill – another bout of tonsillitis. My body lay in the bed like an abandoned shore after a storm – hot, motionless, with a breath that hesitated whether to return from somewhere. My vision was blurred. I was reading Tom
THE TRUTH ABOUT HEAVY RAIN Have you ever seen how rain falls? Now, exactly now, it does not fall straight down – it flows at an angle, like our thoughts, like our destinies, like time, which is never even. The drops strike the windows and slide along the glass like
I DREAMED OF LOVE Dedicated to Rumi – Persian poet and mystic (1207–1273), whose verses on love and the soul continue to touch the contemporary reader beyond time and borders. Morning unfolds like a thin, silk veil of mist over the quiet river. The water is still, but it does
LOVE WHISPER Whisper entered through the window and spread across the room without asking. It was warm, like a sunset that never ends, and like a flower growing under your hands, yet without touching it. At least, that’s how it seemed to me – the air, perhaps, was quietly doing
