By Yasen Vedrin
(Gold Coins in the Oak Chest)
I do not wish to dig the furrow deep of time’s own pace,
Nor in white bones of dead kin who before me used to tread.
The river flows ahead. Its rapid course is a wild chase.
And hidden future draws me with a breath concealed and led.
The lightning never strikes twice the same log upon the threshing floor.
The poet comes to birth, he lives and writes his rhymes of grace.
And all the blazing fire of his trembling inner core
He turns into a handful of word-sparks for human race.
A lamp that shines till pain, a prophet, herald of the morn,
The lonely stork of springtime, still with no high skies to view —
The poet gathers epochs into minutes, sharply born,
Whenever his quill starts to bleed upon the white page, true.
It’s no obituary. It doesn’t end in graveyard stone.
In vain they carve his dates, with bronzen honors to invest.
Do films and cameras ever seal the timeless and unknown,
When the poet is tomorrow, unfulfilled today and blest?
I do not wish to dig the furrow deep of time’s own pace.
Where there is broad eternity — no pantheon is found.
Once born, the poet sows his seed within the spirit's space,
And it revives — through thought — to make a painful, moaning sound.
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