A TALK WITH SMIRNENSKI

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Bulgarian Chronicles - 

Chronicles of the Poets)

Many guests I have met in this long life and place,

Only yellow I missed, poet friend!

I would sleep under bridges, on benches in space...

And from mournful dreams glow till the end.

Many stairs I have climbed. All in unequal fights.

Someone malicious tripped me with a noose.

And I taught my own heart to mourn bleeding in nights,

But fearless of grave winds let loose.

Many brothers I warmed of poor Gavroche’s line

And built barricades for them out of my verse.

And this world — this dark world, like a night in design,

I conquered with bonfires ablaze and diverse.

Many cups I have drained with a gas-stove coffee,

But the absinthe I strictly refused to partake.

That old devil, it seems, caught a rage and a plea

And spat out a storm for my sake.

Many pale, fragile youths wept their tears into me

From the soulless and loud howl of Mammon today.

Yet I yearned and created — inspired, flying free,

Even on the sharp nail in my way.

Much faith I have gathered with horses in flight.

And I sharpened my quill into shrapnel and steel.

If the worst ones had robbed me of all in their night —

Nothing holy could they ever steal.

Many roads I have roamed. In much fire I burned.

And I found a sweet spell in the myrrh and its grace.

To remain within it — as a sin offering turned.

Crucified with the Savior, till the end of the race.

DEDICATED TO VASIL LEVSKI!

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Bulgarian Chronicles - 

Chronicles of the Apostle)

You arrive within my night-long sighing,

As a bright angel and a midnight guest,

To remind somehow of sharp thorns, prying,

In the head of Jesus deeply pressed.

I would never ask how simple-hearted

Is to bring a heart to altars, warm,

And to glow where all the light departed,

As a waxen candle in the storm.

How to bear the sorrows of the broken?

How to gather nations in one chest?

How to keep the sacred words, unspoken,

If the soul by heavy yokes is pressed?

If in here, within our narrow spaces,

Words are not enough for dawn to rise…

And inside the lamp, in quiet traces,

Even the last dying spark now dies.

I have thrown my cassock off, Ignatius!

With my faith I go on sowing seeds.

This is my occupation, holy, spacious,

In this shaken country of my deeds.

We have had enough of slavish stalling.

Long enough have ropes bound soul and head.

They are twisting gallows for our falling,

Worms, unpatriotic, by lies fed.

Stay for me a lantern’s glowing, gleaming,

So that someone in their dark can see.

For though on the gallows hanging, streaming —

The one who is living, dead can never be...

AN ARIA BY LUCIANO

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Bulgarian Chronicles - 

Chronicles of the Poverty)

Our life is triumphant. Just like an aria,

Perchance sung by great Luciano, so high.

They open today a free soup cafeteria

For people whose fates were crushed down to die.

Rejoice, O my nation! Alive by definition.

With warm, little soup oil your strings for a treat.

So that the poor man, near his deathly condition,

Can drag out one more day of life on the street.

Let little bright flashes float over the eyes now,

From meat with hot broth and a handful of peas.

Great mercy — all meant for the paupers to rise now!

And bounty — all meant for their hunger to ease!

To stop for a moment the agonizing rumbling

With one single lunch, surely sent by Christ's hand.

And within this dark, joyless, and miserable stumbling

The hunger won't be a grim question in land.

What of it, if those who are full have amassed now

The surpluses piled like a mountain ahead?

The wonderful, marvelous event has just passed now —

The state has released a few portions of bread.

A comfort for people so broken by sorrow.

A free soup kitchen. A tasty design.

It seems the Great Worker of Miracles tomorrow

Arrived from white clouds of Mount Zion, divine.

And Paradise pours over Bulgaria's traces.

For poor folks the herald sounds trumpets on high...

Our life is triumphant. Just like an aria,

Perchance sung by great Luciano, so high.

POWER AS DORIAN GRAY

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Bulgarian Chronicles -

Chronicles of the Fall)

With respect and reverence to Oscar Wilde!

The power hasn't read a poet's line!

In rhymes it doesn't read a single thing!

Just hand it roses, confetti, and design,

So in its greed and appetite it can spring!

The power, sadly, doesn't hear the groan.

It listens out for hymns and altars high.

From people's pain it heals itself alone —

By bowing down to Mammon with a sigh.

The power doesn't want the heavy weight.

It is enough of a burden on its own.

When pressed into a corner, filled with hate,

With measured lies it slips away, unknown.

The power eats and never has its fill.

With vacuum force it sucks up every cent.

It leaves behind charred ashes on the hill,

Yet keeps its luxury, completely well content.

The power is like stone, heartless and cold.

A Medusa — turning every life to clay.

Unstable, distant, impossible to hold.

Guilty... With no one convicted to this day.

The power is a chasm. Into hell it sinks.

A cruel portrait of some glossy Gray...

And even if it tells you youth it drinks,

Do not accept it ever... Turn away!

THE FEAST OF FREEDOM!

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Bulgarian Chronicles - 

Chronicles of the Holidays)

Freedom is Faith, without chains, flesh, or fright!

Freedom is Truth on the Heavenly Way of light!

Freedom is Honor for blood poured in the past!

Freedom is Courage, like a lion, built to last!

Freedom is Flight, with no rope and no yoke!

Freedom is a Bird where the high skies awoke!

Freedom is Will, with no dungeon walls around!

Freedom is Joy where cloudless days are found!

Freedom is a Banner of the dead in Covenant high!

Freedom is a Flame, the most sublime in the sky!

Freedom is the Gift to the slave of centuries old!

Freedom is a Crown on the bright grave, untold!

Freedom is Memory, standing firm in granite stone!

Freedom is a Song that our blest spirit has known!

Freedom is the Meaning for a life built to grace!

May the Lord protect it upon our own race!

THE DRAMA, EVERLASTING, PLAIN…

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.

A MYTH FROM ANCIENT TIMES

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.

THE CLOCK OF THIS WORLD

By Yasen Vedrin

(Mortal Remains)

The clock of this blind world is ticking fast.

Its spring is almost fully unwound now.

No power given to the dark can last,

Or turn the hands forever with a bow.

A moment comes when time itself will end

Exactly at the ordered, sacred date,

The scream of startled corpses will ascend

To herald all the judgments of God's fate.

The glittering grand palaces will fade.

The pompous elite will shiver in surprise.

Their sin will seek for advocates and aid,

But no one will forgive them or their lies.

The cheap and dirty glory of the thief

Will turn into a filthy, ragged space,

When the Grand Judge demands, in their belief,

What goods they stole from paupers in disgrace.

In nightmares, like a fate that cannot bend,

A retribution over Evil will strike,

Because the hell takes its own in the end,

While it screams out in horror, ghost-like…

The clock of this blind world is ticking fast.

Its hands are crawling closer to midnight.

The earth will wait for justice at the last,

With chasms between luxury and plight.

And may this Moment, this fateful earthquake,

Descend upon my spirit soon to heal —

For guiltless in God, yet guilty for world’s sake,

Living almost like on a Cross, I feel…

LIFE IS A CHOICE!

By Yasen Vedrin

(Mortal Remains)

Life is a choice, and everyone chooses

Whom to believe in, and whose steps to trace.

We live but once, and once a soul loses,

And faith in its battles bleeds in this space.

Within the eternal, swift rush of the hour,

The heart drifts away with its beats and its strain.

To sigh from a call, to catch breath and power,

Preserving its target and hot fiery flame.

Life is a choice. And with it, fate traces

A portrait so true for the Faithful to claim —

A crown of sharp thorns that pierces and paces,

A chalice of wine with the Spirit and Name.

Traces left high on the steep, rugged highway,

Lit by the generous rays of the Skies,

And sorrows with roots from twenty-century's byway,

Marking the cheekbones and wide-awake eyes.

Life is the choice that happens to settle

Only but once, through the spirit or flesh.

It either breaks loose, or catches its metal,

But always arrives at the final edge, fresh…

So let the wise man make choices with care.

For heavy and light, a price must be paid…

The guilt looking up is washed by Blood there,

The guilt looking down… remains guilt unswayed!

THE UNFULFILLED SEED

By Yasen Vedrin

(Mortal Remains)

The unfulfilled seed aches inside,

After the bright and pouring rain.

The sower takes a breath, to stride,

And sows a Call across the plain.

And with full Faith he hopes anew,

That it will sprout both here and there,

So that within hard soil, true,

The grain will find a spark to share.

The time of grace flows, running fast,

From two pierced hands, wounded and deep,

But does it yield a hundredfold at last —

The heart that sunlit glances keep?

What kind of sorrow brings it fear?

What weed torments it with its guile,

If it cannot give back, sincere,

The Heavenly Gift, with even a smile?

The sower skips each mournful plea,

With many seeds upon the track,

For it is only God, we see,

Who bears human guilt upon His back.

And he will go on sowing wide

His Covenant around the land,

Even if freezing cold outside

Laps selfish human earth and sand.

The moment comes when from his sack

The final seed he will bestow,

And beaten by his fateful track,

In deep humility, kneel low.

He sowed unutterable words, defined

By the Comforter, pure and Blest,

But stumbled into winters blind,

And human chill struck down his chest.

What of it? He at least has tried,

His holy duty didn't freeze,

But with a Faith, open and wide,

He sought to rescue souls with ease.

An unfulfilled, lone seed is left

To ache within the sower’s care,

And today's cruel time, bereft,

Is like Golgotha everywhere…

COMFORT FOR THE OUTSIDER

By Yasen Vedrin

(Mortal Remains)

Do not lament, when failing to succeed,

You find yourself within this gloomy space.

The throne of winners is corrupt, indeed,

Its price is like a stench of dark disgrace.

Only the hunchbacks rule the earth tonight,

With glances fixed upon their paradise.

After their heavy bows to snake in sight,

They curl up tight, forever paid by vice.

No one lifts up their head to God above,

By earthly treasures frozen and confined,

And everyone drags chains, devoid of love,

In which their captived spirit stays resigned.

And who is then the one we should deplore,

When viewed beyond the final, silent gate?

The purchased glory fades forevermore,

With cunning conscience kept for judgment's fate.

So powerful are the iron bars that bind

The fallen souls the prince of darkness holds,

That open fields make paupers glad to find

The freedom from the cash and power molds.

To be an outsider just means, indeed,

That you already stand on other tracks,

And you have no misfortunes left to bleed

From bowing down to Satan on your backs.

For the prince gives, but later takes it back…

Deceived — the souls become his final part

In deep abysses, invisible and black

For those who lived with sin inside their heart.

For this blind world condemns to banishment

The ones over whom it has no power or reign…

While others — with a Judas noose intent —

Are harvest for the ultimate villain's gain.

LOVE SEES NO GUILT, IN ALL BELIEVING

By Yasen Vedrin

(Mortal Remains)

Love sees no guilt, in all believing.

So innocent. Bright-trusting, whole.

Yet down below, instead of drinking

The sweetest nectar, grief fills its soul.

The hands prepared for warm embraces,

Are bitten by hyenas’ spite.

While audience turns back their faces,

And lock cold doors into the night.

The good man from naivety suffers,

By hypocrites tripped on his way.

Expecting love for what he offers —

With heaps of hate he’s paid today.

And somehow, with an ancient lesson,

He understands, as time goes by,

If faith is what he puts his stress on,

He must look closer with his eye…

For he would quickly gather many,

When stretching palms with gifts to share.

But then drinks wormwood, with no penny,

Wounded by blind thoughts everywhere.

Why, Love, are you so unprotected,

Like silk lace, fragile to the touch?

You give yourself to be perfected,

Before you have received so much…

And if a plea from you arises,

By muddy splashes it’s denied,

Even if with the shirt he prizes

The lover clothes the world outside…

You are a price, for which, in sorrow,

The saint pays for the Heavens high.

To be a pearl in swamp tomorrow,

Or a lone fig tree in fields nearby.

To be a bread, till last crumb eaten,

And wine, to very final drop.

Passing a test, severe and beaten,

Through Holy Heavenly sieve to stop.

And there, before the Lord’s own Altar,

Reflected in live words to weave…

Love sees no guilt, and will not falter.

So innocent. Bright-trusting, to believe.

THE MOVIE HAS BEEN WATCHED BEFORE…

By Yasen Vedrin

(Mortal Remains)

The movie has been watched before,

To the very last blink of our space.

So, hold on to your hope and ignore

The sorrow that weighs on your face.

On the bright, wise and heavenly screen

See yourself in the times that have passed.

For when nailed to the Cross you are seen —

God will come for your spirit at last.

And out there, it will no longer sting,

Nor the crown of sharp thorns will oppress…

Lift your eyes to the Father and King —

Eternity waits on the threshold to bless.

The movie has been watched before.

There is nothing brand new under sun.

But when late drops of rain stop to pour,

This cruel, heavy drama is done.

To yourself you will say: "I survived

Through the fears of this terrible age.

In the palm of the Lord I was held,

To discover His Love on the stage.

With sufferings, the Chalice I drained,

And in dreams tasted comfort so deep.

In His Covenant Eternal I stayed,

My Heavenly garment to keep."

The movie is ending… I hope I am bound!

I pray that in Him I will wake!

By the Call of Christ captured and found —

The Heavenly gates I will take…

COMFORT FOR THE STRANGER

By Yasen Vedrin

(Mortal Remains)

“I am a stranger in the earth…” (Psalm 119:19)

When you are just a stranger in the earth,

And like a foe, the world casts you aside,

A Holy hope remains your only worth —

That Your true Home awaits across the tide.

That there, all painful wounds will deeply heal,

And no more evil will oppress the soul,

Instead of ravens, crows, and what they feel,

A White Dove will fly high, to make you whole.

The massive, heavy weariness compiles,

Just like a mountain, impossible to bear,

Everywhere among the human files

To meet the queen of evil and despair.

And king of sin among the lost to roam,

With crowns from Sodom, rebel and unkept,

While faith, so hardened in its worldly home,

Grieves for the Heaven where it hasn't slept.

Deep down inside the chalice, dark and plain,

The poison starts to pour, a heavy flood,

The evil stirs it with a sharp clawed chain,

To throw you down and freeze your human blood…

But this blind world is not your homeland space,

And flesh is not where final fates arise.

A moment comes for spirit’s resting place

Near the most wonderful and Holy Light of skies.

And up above, the battle ends its art,

What’s written inside you will take its throne,

For when Eternity receives the stranger's heart,

The pain will stop, and leave the soul alone…

O, LUCKY MAN!

By Yasen Vedrin

(Mortal Remains)

To the lucky I say: Be content,

But remember this Truth, so unseen!

Every spirit left traces and went,

So that hearts could be captured between.

A rich man will tell you: "I lived,

And my blessings were wonderful, bright!

No sin in my soul was perceived,

Nor a shadow of Horned One in sight..."

O, you vain and you weak advocate

Of the deeds that the Lord hates to find!

Satan’s hidden! He watches, in wait,

While temptations are piled up ahead, blind!

Only one who is warmed by the sun,

Casts a shadow when stopping the rays...

But the fool, by his self-greed undone,

Seems alive, yet he dies in his ways.

It’s not scary, when broken and down,

To be tortured by dramas so old.

"Ah, what happens when I am not around,

There, out there, when my body grows cold?

Which spirit will reach out a hand,

To reclaim a captured heart’s space?

Was I, God, by Your river and land?

Did I sow Your own Seed in its place?

Did You mark Your traces in me,

Or the dark one left his first sign?

Who reigns in my chest, to be free,

And won't leave this spirit of mine?"

O, lucky man! Look at the word!

Rarely spoken by spirit or mouth!

The most beautiful prestige inferred

Is to love Christ with all of your youth.

And accumulating dreams for His part,

With full Faith to lay down your own key,

Only then will he whisper with heart:

"In me, God, Your own traces You'll see!"

THE CALL OF FAITH

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

Come down from above, Dear Lord!

In a poor man's clothes arrive!

See then who with one accord

In Your holy steps will strive!

Who will warm the pauper’s heart

With a shirt, a coin, or bread,

And with timid love, apart,

Call himself Your slave instead!

Look, Most Holy Judge and Guide,

How the wolves the pastures keep,

And with cursed feet, in pride,

Muddy waters for the sheep.

Greedy men before You pray,

Yet Mammon is in their mind.

How they twist false hands today

For the hollow groans they find?

Where is Your poor widow now

With her final mites, so small?

Did she vanish from the plow

Like a stray dog chased by all?

Come down, Eternal God, to stay!

Bring Your Justice from above!

For in heartless years today,

Evil crushed the souls we love.

Kindness is a wanderer now,

Finding every door is closed.

For Your Comfort, with a bow,

Mournful faith its prayer composed.

Hear it, God of Mercy, hear!

Let Christ now return again!

And save hearts, in Spirit dear,

From all malice, grief, and pain.

THE BLIND MAN'S PRAYER

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

Blind to malice and to human plight,

Blind to furies, spits, and insults cast,

Tapping with my cane into the night,

With timid steps I venture out at last.

All my life a prayer I have cleared,

Hoping God would somehow find a way —

With pure faith to make my eyelids healed,

Turning into miracles my clay.

To open eyes and see the world arise.

The sun, the heaven, and the stars above.

To feel the grace that in the spirit lies,

And warm my chest with fire and with love.

Perhaps from deep within all human eyes,

Kindness always glances, soft and clear.

And from their depths, bright sunbeams always rise,

While man holds another human dear.

Lord, will You arrive? Please let me know!

In Your sweet mercy heal my broken sight!

This blindness is a heavy weight and woe,

And for You, the miracle is light!

But if, healed in Siloam, I should see,

Won't my spirit suffer even more?

"O, blind man! Do not grieve or bow your knee!

Your blindness is a gift, a prize in store!"

SEEK FOR THE LIVING SAINT!

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

“My little children, let us not love in word, 

neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth...” 

(1 John 3:18)

If poverty should hunt you down,

With overflowing grief, like streams,

Seek for the living saint around,

To hold your hand and build your dreams...

For with no candle, with no light,

And even with no prayerful plea,

With his two glowing eyes and bright,

He would give Love to make you free.

He’d strip away his only shirt

To warm a freezing back with flame,

For Christ Himself steps through the dirt,

To build a Temple in his name.

He’d open up his purse with grace,

And with his very final cent,

He would embrace the poor man’s space

With comfort that the Heavens sent.

He’d break his final piece of bread —

To put a Strength in those who fail,

And it stays true, whatever’s said,

When God makes joyful hearts prevail.

An angel for our daily need,

With fiery wings spread wide above.

With him — you are embraced, indeed,

Not just in words, but deeds of Love...

THE GOOD MAN

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

The good man, I tell you, is like a raindrop.

He will blend with the rest in a stream.

With a warm coat to share, and a bite not to stop,

To be God’s helping hand in a dream.

The good man, I tell you, has no gold in the bank.

No chauffeur drives his car down the line.

But within his own life, not of wealthiest rank,

Sunlit glances from his eyes always shine.

The good man, I tell you, can never be broken.

A tough branch is his spirit for years.

If he trusts an idea, by deeds it is spoken.

And succeeds... the good man through his tears.

The good man, I tell you, when giving, won’t lose.

By self-interest he’s never restrained.

In deep mercy for life, it is love he will choose,

With no tax for the deeds he sustained.

The good man, I tell you, is sowing his seeds.

He won't turn his eyes back to the past.

If a drop is still missing to answer our needs —

He will pour it, and streams will flow fast...

The good man, I tell you, needs no power or might.

He is power himself. Impulse, alive.

Even if his own fate should grow dark as the night —

In his faith he will happily thrive.

The good man, I tell you, inside me rejoices.

And awakes within you too, right now?

For the brightest of meanings, in all human voices,

Is to stop every pain with a bow.

THE RETURNEE

By Yasen Vedrin

(Pearl Seeker)

I do not fear to fade away alone

Amidst the snowdrifts of a winter’s night.

For fate is beautiful, in ways its own,

Even beyond the final line in sight.

And even if unjust it may appear,

It follows its own providential theme.

Life comes, and then it leaves this earthly sphere,

And every breath is but a drop in stream.

One person dies, another comes to birth.

The torch is passed by bloodlines. With Olympus.

And laurel? It is not chosen on this earth,

But sits like halos on the heads that window us.

If I can just ignite a tiny spark,

The fire will continue when I’m gone.

Why should I mourn my ending in the dark,

Or let unfulfilled yearnings weigh me down?

How long does a footprint left behind

Tremble upon the waves before it dies?

Forgot, it vanishes into the blind

Oblivion where the water columns rise.

And only he who seeks will ever find

The treasure that another gave away —

Even if lost chimeras of the mind,

In which he lived or didn't yesterday...

The world is not the ultimate, sole cause

Of all the things that happened to occur.

Before I leave it, bound by nature's laws,

I want no things for me, I do aver.

For when I cross that final, silent sill —

I am a returnee out there, no less?

Only then, let my weeping eyes fulfill

The grief that can no longer hurt or press...