By Yasen Vedrin
(The Bulgarian Chronicles -
Chronicles of the Elections)
The people drown in hardships, lower,
And turn to beasts — both bare and cold,
When a malicious liar leads with power,
And not Christ Jesus, from of old.
And this same drama, everlasting, plain,
Will keep repeating every turn,
Because this world, in greed and gain,
To Holy Heaven will not yearn.
Platforms, oaths, and new creations
Flow down into the dirty drain,
And no life-shattering tribulations
Become an ideal through the pain.
The earthly thrones are distributed
By a long-fallen prince of night,
And he selects dry chaff, computed,
When offering power and its might.
And every crown that glitters brightly,
Or chair desired in this race,
Is given only when bowing lightly
Before supreme, dark Evil's face.
No earthly creature will erase it,
No straw will throw it to the ground,
For it buys hearts that will embrace it,
To crawl inside them, fully bound.
Up there, upon the high stair’s tracing,
The ruler turns into a beast,
Just like a lion, a bone embracing,
Or thief who smells a profit’s feast.
And this true picture, uninvited,
Turns into grief and deep regret,
When, with the ballot now ignited,
The nation makes its costly bet…
And drawing lines when all is over,
It understands within its hell,
That only God, in Heaven’s clover,
Is Faithful, True, and Holy as well.
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