In Disillusion Poem by Georgi Todorov

In a perpetual loop of defeats
we stay stuck, never counting
the number of our retreats.
Only the winds on our bare decks howl -
how many nights, how many days of stepping back?

With God above, just sitting there,
looking for a cure for his weariness.
Keeping a fusion of dreams and realities
in a hookah beside his chair.
Like any deity demanding obedience
but never receiving it. Old and oblivious.
Fighting with a mission
to turn the ingredients -
boredom and useless trivia
into something meaningful.
Jumping to some other inspiration
in the very moment he loses interest.

Standing face to face with a new failure,
we stay in disillusion. Never counting
the hopes, the lights, the heartbeats.
For us they are just the children of our fears.
No time, no road, no father to lead us ahead.

With God above, just sitting there,
with sense of obligation to be found
nowhere in his memory. Behind a curtain
of greenish smoke, treating his autumn apathy.
A thread of wild hemp is the only
string keeping him in a frame of decency.
With his divine will jumping
between order and destruction,
he is nothing more than a little kid playing.

In a constant stand of weightlessness,
we float between worlds - never counting
our lives, they are just indigo drawings,
except the thin trace of fragrant smoke,
occasionally leading some of us towards love.