Our love isn't at ease
Our love isn't at ease,
just like the wind in white acacias
and like a bead on child's hand,
it's not at ease.
In it they miss - wonderlands,
delights, flame and solace.
And none of us will call it my own
before it passes us on slightly.
And it will stay somewhere - far away,
And yellow leaves will whisper in snows.
Our love isn't at ease.
It isn't at ease.
Bozhidar Pangelov's Other Poems
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(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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