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.