By Krasimir Georgiev
Well-known is the sad fate of a fly:
Once it at dawn streches out the coloured wings,
Washing his face with dew a little,
Then quickly at sunset it burns in fire.
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My translation in russian:
http: //www.stihi.ru/2012/04/02/9204
The original poem in bulgarian:
http: //www.stihi.ru/2011/05/15/9070
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem