By Yasen Vedrin
(Gold Coins in the Oak Chest)
Do you heal heavy wounds, my dear chosen and beautiful fate-weaver?
Do you still keep that gift in your fingers that tremble and gleam?
Maybe you have found herbs that were wonderfully fashioned forever,
For the heroes whose hopes have run out like a fast-fading dream.
Light a wild, burning fire from leaves and dry twigs in the valley.
Pour a copper pot full from the stream that flows down by the clearing.
Rip my shirt into pieces... Right there, where my heart used to rally,
A fierce pain cuts me through, and the memory keeps reappearing.
How can one forget faces, once dreamed of in nights that were starry?
How can sadness be cured, when no potion is found for its grief?
And my tired, old eyes – by what miracle do they now vary,
Or do they just fall asleep, having seen their own end and relief?
Sprinkle powder upon my bare chest from the long-barreled rifle.
Throw a burning hot coal – let the deep, bleeding wound be now seared.
Then with handfuls of water my destiny’s dark shadows stifle –
Just a moment before by the mountain-top rays you are cleared.
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