By Yasen Vedrin
(The Bulgarian Chronicles -
Chronicles of the Transition)
Within a miserable, minor state,
With commoners so broken by their grief,
There lived a king, a leech-like soul of late,
Upon their wounded backs, with no relief.
From dawn to dark, in blood-soaked, cruel predation —
The royal lifetime dragged its heavy track.
He turned his palace rooms to degradation,
Playing his cards and poker in the black.
He wagered grandly mid the players' betting.
On bound stakes — with liters of fresh blood.
The greedy vultures round him kept resetting,
But he would beat them, standing in the mud.
The king remained alone. With no rival's face.
He even carved upon his golden seat:
"What Dante was to Florence and its race,
And Shakespeare to the misty Albion's street,
That’s who I am among the finest!" "Cheers!
From this red blood my stature has grown high!
The fools may call me leech through all these years,
Yet it’s as God that I should pass them by.
But how did I end up with such anemia,
With pale and hungry crowds that stare at me?
They shout: 'We do not want your academy!
How can we walk bloodless and still be free?'
Is it for me to answer angry calling
From little folks with bad hemoglobin?
Aren't you content with charisma, so enthralling,
Of your supreme and master-sovereign?"
"Live with your faith! With ideals in your spirit!
The soul requires no goods, no cash today!
In submission, mind your rags and fear it,
For the king knows how to make you obey..."
Within a miserable, minor state,
Left as a myth from times of ancient lines,
About a greedy king, a leech of fate,
Who drank the blood of enslaved tribes' designs.
But in the end, he burst from all the rotting.
The blood poured out — a dark and stagnant pool.
And clotted weeds grew tall where he was plotting,
To remind the world of this blood-drinking fool.
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