At last Poem by Mirela Ivanova

I opened the door just a slit
and saw the unmade bed
the pile of books on the floor
the round table myself from the back
the green vase and the red jug
the yellow stains on the curtain
I saw the Virgin Mary and her child
a copy from the 16th century the tallow candle
half burnt extinguished the armchair
full of clothes and newspapers
the phosphorescent dust in the dark
the gilded letters like freckles
on the spines of the wieldy dictionaries
I stepped inside to run my hand along them
and now I know I'm back again and know
that freedom is a sublet room
in which I am at last at home.

Translated by Roy Kift