for Mirela Ivanova

And always a dog lies very flat on the footpath.
And always a cat pads about on the second-floor sill.
And always heroes, saints and emperors posturing in the park.
And always the traffic, a murderous mob in an avalanche of metal,
and a trolleybus stops quite gently and says, do go on then.
And always the church here is higher and brighter than anywhere else in the land,
and a slim priest discusses with the young couple
the baptism of this child, and he teases it as if the water
is already wetting it and it shivers.
And always to the left, bursting with joyful message,
the angel bowing down,
And always to the right, not entirely unafraid,
the Virgin, robed in virtue.
And always the overflowing clutter of saints, of Sofia and of Christendom,
there can never be enough of them, and the Mother of God to the left
and the Son to the right.
And always they all look so severe, even this young saint
Ekaterina, androgynous and shining in her golden robe,
her face the most beautiful of all of them -
and wasn't he lucky, the man who painted her?
And always these beautiful ones go away, just when I meet them,
rows of them cheerfully marching off to the Miss Europe contest,
off they go, and so do the strong, dark men, hundreds of thousands of them
out into the big wide world, to Leipzig and Paris and Canada,
sending back cash whenever they can.
And always I want to dance here with these beautiful ones,
and here with the One, but I'm always in transit;
and though I feel that old familiar urge
to put down roots in a foreign place,
nothing will come of it, I am too few.
And always I'm writing letters to Maria and Mirela
And Vesselina, Galja and Emilja,
And always with the dream that somehow we might one to the other
be a language.
Probably, if I may say it quietly, I'm in love with a woman
who walks out from her shop and bends to feed stray dogs
and feeds the ragged bum a few kind words.
And always the pretty sister has a sister
who's an artist, while the pretty sister sings,
and learns Spanish, and her English is not so bad either.
Oh yes, she has too much to do on weekdays, she sighs;
... but luckily today is Saturday.
And always she talks, if I understand it correctly,
about all the fat women in Greece,
they go about with their noses in the air, but - look at me -
don't you think Bulgarian women are prettier?
And always I say, hmmm, yes, that's so, and while I'm saying this
I'm thinking, My God, she's right, it all just bowls me over.
And always the sister of the sister has a boyfriend
from Krefeld, they're away in the country right now,
And always she warns me about the Gypsy women, but once a day
I do the right thing with a few coins, ‘Bog' will bless you,
says the old woman, nodding up to a distant slice of sky.
And always here, and not just in wakefulness but even in your dreams,
you have to watch out for the lunatics making left turns
And always men wait in cars by the roadside,
they're waiting, it seems, for life to begin,
and the rich ones have a holiday home by the sea
or a little place up in the mountains,
and everyone sends their kiddies to the private schools,
and there are plenty of those around.
And always, sadly, the daughter's a bit of a try-hard
and her mother, scrutinising the stranger,
lets herself be translated,
gracefully nodding as she takes it all in.
And always the telephone is close at hand,
for the sister it might be the prince who calls,
for those young bucks (let's cross our fingers)
that ‘goljam' business deal,
and for the mother, perhaps, at last, her son.

Translation: Luke Davies