WONDROUS LOVE, SILVER-FACED

By Yasen Vedrin

(Gold Coins in the Oak Chest)

Wondrous love, silver-faced, from my soul it begins to awaken.

Turning into a stream by the cliffs, and a falls in the stones.

And the wind, by its beauty enchanted, a lyre has taken,

Softly whispering spray to the thorns and the briars in zones.

In a flash, living grass in a wonderful tremor turns green,

And it waits to be spotted by carpet-weavers on their part.

Cuckoo calls from fatigue. Sweetest nightingale sings all unseen.

While the stream – running downward – keeps pouring its luminous heart.

An old mill of our village. You come here in dressed-up attire.

And the water keeps turning the wheel near the sunrise so bright.

Knead a loaf of round bread for me, shared and faithful desire,

On a furnace of burning hot coals let it bake through the night.

Wondrous love, silver-faced, from my soul it now flows to the land.

Come along to the threshing-floor soon! Invite guests to the floor!

My own spring found your way, and it vows for your love and your hand.

Eloped with me, my darling! I want you, elope evermore...

MY DEAR CHOSEN FATE-WEAVER!

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.

DID YOU WEAVE IT, MY MOTHER?

By Yasen Vedrin

(Gold Coins in the Oak Chest)

Did you weave it, my mother, that last woolen rug on the loom,

From those rags that you cut into pieces, so many and small?

In my shattered, old memory, holy and clear through the gloom,

You alone have remained, and to God for your eternity I’d call.

Did you weave all my old recollections – to step and feel warm?

To be breathed by the magical scent of a quince on the shelf...

To tell you without voice that you are my protection from storm,

Like a living icon that the heart never hides from itself.

Did you weave all my tears that I wept since a boy in the street,

With my knees torn and bleeding, and burning from nettles like fire?

Did you weave all the sparks that remained in the bread-morsel sweet,

And the hard clods of earth by the field of our village and sire?

Did you weave all the sighs in your quiet and passionate mind?

By my white little bed from the eve till the morn you would stay...

Did you weave all the seasons that left you so silver and kind,

And that painted your face with the wrinkles of heavy decay?

You have woven it all, I well know... And the gate speaks your name.

By the locust tree, empty, that rug is now spread on the ground.

On my knees, I now kiss your bright spirit. I’ll pass just the same,

But I’ll pass to my children your shuttle from looms you have wound.

THE FINAL MEANING

By Yasen Vedrin 

(Gold Coins in the Oak Chest)

These summers of mine – like the water-buffaloes, old and resigned,
How long they have plowed through our hopes with the sharp, iron blade...
But the colorful dreams yet unlived have been left far behind,
As if I had prayed for another to find their warm shade.

The downpours of rain have rushed out. In the spring, in the autumn, and heat.
The thunders have crashed with their lightning and short-living trace.
While my soul counted all of its tears – offered at God’s own feet,
To make His pure waters burst out... Holy rivers of grace!

My hair became white, as if branded and seared by the heavy white frost,
And the dry, barren river of call cut its wrinkles in clay.
My faith became bent from the load that it carried, exhausted and lost,
But it didn't trample its duty beneath Christ’s own Cross on the way.

I didn't live to that day, which was set for a miracle find.
Perhaps I refused to give up my whole soul on the altar to rise.
And inside the future there still remain dreams that must die in the mind,
To bring Resurrection and life to my gift in the skies.

These summers of mine – like the water-buffaloes, old and resigned,
How long they have plowed... And a field is still waiting ahead!
Let me drive them once more with my eyes that are sleepless and blind,
For the ultimate meaning – that His was the life that I led.