This Love Poem by Bozhidar Pangelov

wants nothing.
It just happens
like a ray of the tree-tops
or of a temporal bone a palm.
This love
is not a centenary tree keeping
secrets -
open and clear is shining
the grass on the hill.
It stays quiet under the stormy wind
it bears under the fire of the sun,
in hollows of the nights long
tells fairytales.
The world changes. - It does not faint.
It grows up higher than it
and shorter than the stone.
In the church a thunder falls,
but She is praying…
She is Her temple
and the temple is Her.

And Everything!