Bozhidar Pangelov Poems

I remain a guard of sorrow,
of angels who are thrilling there
and of the water of the fat soil.
Insane guard
...

A splendid vase –
the setting sun rotates
in redness of the skies.
Oh! Of happiness I dream!
...

Art must mount a full-scale attack on language itself,
by means of language and its surrogates, on behalf of the standard of silence.
Susan Sontag.
...

Twinkling,
when even the day
is shrinking,
and the sun declines
...

I'm twisting
like
a shaft of silver reeds
for the sunrise on the waves
...

now not anymore
the Island that isn't
a loneliness but
Choice without being
...

The girl
who used to open
the markets
and lock the day.
...

At some unnamed night,
and it will be bright,
I'll go away.
The door I will never
...

it's a time of hunger
and of plague
and of starling
the grasshoppers ate up the wheat
...

wants nothing.
It just happens
like a ray of the tree-tops
or of a temporal bone a palm.
...