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...

A CAUSE

By Yasen Vedrin

(Pearl Seeker)

I do not look for proofs in theorems' design,

I have no scheduled hour to see a shrink.

The friendships that are fake dissolve in time,

With no regret or worry on the brink.

I do not want with useless, blind illusions

To fill up every corner of my space.

If I should trip — I bleed from cold contusions,

But I am always there, in time and place.

With that so necessary, calm apathy,

I skip past every card that Vanity deals.

I don't debate with the devil's attorney,

I trust the deeds before the words he feels.

And somehow, as a stoic by definition,

Stretched out from Marcus Aurelius to Seneca's line,

I am not tortured by this long transition

Along this unending, deep path of mine.

I chose it to be far from worldly glory.

Even the laurel branches dry and fade.

The crooked and the straight share the same story,

When scratching for a rusted crown self-made.

The meaningful — by many still undetected —

I will preserve for travelers behind.

To be a giver of virtues, well-protected —

What higher cause could my own ego find?

THE CLASSICS WITH QUILLS

By Yasen Vedrin

(Pearl Seeker)

High up above — where birds alone are soaring —

I love to drift, on widespread wings sustained.

To lead a talk with classics, while exploring

The timeless traces that in me remained.

There Dostoevsky with his Karamazovs I will meet,

And Gogol with his dead souls I will find.

They humble down my ego at Christ's feet,

When heavy grief leaves all my joy behind.

Tolstoy will wrap me in Resurrection's light,

And Pushkin with Onegin will shine clear.

While down below — with sword and fire bright —

The world will hiss with bitter rage and fear.

With Chekhov’s prose my loneliness I’ll heal,

Yesenin will become my haven white.

And Lermontov’s young passion I will feel,

Blending my sorrow with a pure delight.

And this vast Russia — grand, with leaves unspun,

With its white birches, lakes of crystal gleam —

When I would ask it: "What is Truth, under the sun?" —

I look to classics with their quills supreme...

MY FRIEND!

By Yasen Vedrin

(Pearl Seeker)

My friend! My D’Artagnan, so true and fast!

If I were Dumas, I would write your glory.

Our life is a fateful novel till the last,

And everyone breathes in to read its story.

I will not look for faith in Richelieu.

The cunning cardinal I fully banish.

Instead of silk-clad power, false and new,

You are enough for muddy paths to vanish.

With just a sword — for honor's sake alone!

With just an oath — for glory, pure and high!

A support yesterday, today a stone —

The friend remains forever, standing by!

Now one for all! And all for one, indeed!

No other motto could my soul desire!

Even with a cup of wormwood in my need,

To drink a loyal toast, fate tuned my lyre.

My friend! My D’Artagnan, so dear to me!

I hope to be your Athos in this space!

While Porthos and Aramis, wild and free,

With yearning share my high and heavenly grace!

CITY LIGHTS

By Yasen Vedrin

(Freezing Point)

She will look with her eyes full of light

At the world, so unfamiliar, apart.

And you — keep your silence in night,

That no one can love your own heart.

If you just reach your hand to extend —

How can one lonely heart be achieved?

Will the small candlelight in the end

Be in bright neon flashes perceived?

Will the delicate flower smell sweet,

If it’s shaken, with no one to call?

Doesn't chill make our feelings retreat,

When our yearning stays hidden from all?

Smile now with your sorrow concealed,

Like a knight with his armor in pieces.

Seeking joy — in this hour, on this field —

You are chasing a memory that ceases...

She will look with her eyes full of light.

Love will find her in every heartbeat.

Let no grief in your eyes come to sight,

Even if the whole world fades in defeat.

VANITY FAIR

By Yasen Vedrin

(Freezing Point)

To a ball I was asked by old Vanity:

"Hey, you cheerful, bright charmer! Come near!

Come and dance with the elite of humanity,

With no weight of human sorrow or fear!

Look, the cognac is festively gleaming

In this glass made of delicate crystal...

How many others are waiting and dreaming

For my invitation to cross this threshold...

I chose you! For your mind is so splendid!

With your lyre, you write with such ease!

On the crest of the wave, Yasen, blended,

This prestige will be yours, if you please.

Here a courtly, grand lady is glancing,

There a famous professor observes.

Drink the cognac, while we are advancing —

Blessed poet with Vanity's nerves...

I am tired of worldly, prose thinking.

With your wonderful verses, praise me today!

Give the most fiery rose without blinking

To this brothel of mine, on display!

Courtesan next to virgin patrician —

No plot could be more captivating.

Look at me with deep eyes, your ambition!

Possess me in rhymes, escalating!..."

I was cast out... I refused to obey.

Vanity traded me for a snob's name.

And I went to the slush, far away —

Where sadness rings out just the same.

A TALK WITH VALJEAN

By Yasen Vedrin

(Freezing Point)

Invented by Hugo’s immortal pen,

Within a story, holy and sublime,

I see you in your final weight again,

While ice has locked the earth in frozen time.

I am no radical of extreme thought,

Yet full of pure illusions, brotherhood.

By day I trudge through sticky mud, distraught,

Of mutiny, shame, sins against the good.

Your spirit comes to visit my own heart,

Your deep and harmless essence, so profound.

To stay deaf in the gale, to do my part,

Against the snakelike whispers spinning round.

Above a cup of soup with some gray wretch,

To read Christ’s holy words and contemplate.

To meet Gavroche before my door, and stretch

The Love of loves to shield him from his fate.

To leave a mark behind. A trace, a sign.

In hearts and minds. In palms and eyes awake.

So that the evil falls in floods, divine,

With iron handcuffs locked for his own sake.

And this, my friend Valjean, is where I stand,

My final, holy barricade and turn —

By evil of this world, unchecked, untamed,

Upon my fateful bonfire to burn...

WHITE BEAR

By Yasen Vedrin

(Freezing Point)

A white bear is the faith I am holding

In a world that is freezing so fast.

No future perspective unfolding,

And no calendars turned to the last.

They keep telling me: "Think more globally!"

And they push all their charts in my face.

"Warmth is coming, it's real and noticed!"

As the ice melts away from its place.

But the fears in my heart that are shrinking

Are prepared with another scale to measure.

For by day, when at souls I am looking,

I see shivering hearts lose their treasure.

There is no sign of mercy or healing,

And the time is so blank, so colder.

Under clothes, everyone is concealing

What is holy, and personal, and bolder.

Ice is drifting and crawling, untamed,

A sharp iceberg is threatening in white.

Even if like Titanic my heart had been named —

It would perish and break in the fight.

Maybe ancient and deep intuition

Keeps my soul in a shield, unrevealed.

A white bear is my faith and condition

In a world that is freezing and chilled.

A POTION OF SIGHS

By Yasen Vedrin

(A Potion of Sighs)

Upon the warm stove of my lifetime and fate,

A kettle of bitter herbs simmers and sighs.

I gathered the weeds when the starlight was late,

And mixed them with faith and with wisdom likewise.

At first, I left footprints. I pressed with my heel.

In these little hollows I wept, all alone.

A tear in each space — for pure dreams I could feel,

And grief for the colorless life I had known.

From within my own heart, seeds for herbs I then chose.

Each seed filled with yearning, anxiety, care.

Deep down in the soil, the seeds I enclosed,

And offered to God a hot, passionate prayer.

Time passed. Many summers extinguished their light.

My hair started changing its shades and its gleams.

Like a sad, ancient fated queen, youth took its flight.

It wept right beside me. It packed up my dreams.

And then I rushed up the steep slope in a race

To find all the footprints I left long ago.

Those herbs that were planted with moans in that place.

Those sighs that were bitter, with sadness and woe.

They had sprouted and grown. They had bloomed in the air.

Not a single wild herb, but a garden, whole-grown.

There is tea for the soul of the poet so rare,

Who passed through this life quite ingloriously, alone.

So I sit here in silence. I stretch out my hands

And warm myself up with live memories’ trace.

I drink from the potion. On my palate expands

The glow of sad sighs, bitter-tasting with grace.

FAREWELL

By Yasen Vedrin

(A Potion of Sighs)

Stripped of my leaves, in dark forebodings grieving,

From truths and worries that came true, so tired.

A late, cold autumn with its gusts is weaving

A final shrift for me, by winds inspired.

“I’m leaving now. The winter comes behind me.

I shook your branches in my freezing rain.

But life will go on long, as time outlined thee,

So hold your faith deep down through all the pain.

The leaves grow green, then wither and decay.

So fragile — like words caught in cycles’ spin.

And feelings slow down, panting on the way,

Within this seasonal world you wander in.

I’m leaving now. Let me embrace you tight,

For frost will cover you with white tomorrow.

But I will return, out of the winter's night,

And all between us shall resume past sorrow...”

My very final leaf was torn away.

It tried to fly, but failed and met the ground.

And I, who sent my autumn on its way,

Curled by the root to sleep in peace profound.

AUTUMN WISDOM

By Yasen Vedrin

(A Potion of Sighs)

My final autumn strikes me with its breeze

And shakes the yellow leaves into the air.

With secret leaven, kneaded with much ease

Inside my heart, to follow truth I dare.

It always wakes exactly at the stage

When loops and cycles near their final end,

And when the artist needs, at such an age,

To feel rich in the heights, as realms ascend.

Attempting at the sunset to stay warm,

Old men step forth into the gloomy phase.

They tap their canes in silence through the storm,

Forgetting their most mournful groan and days.

The leaves that lost the fight with falling down,

Have stripped away their summer shades of green,

And sooner, later, every leaf must drown

In withered foliage of this transient scene.

What could sustain their warmth if they must die?

Does their green yearning still remain behind?

Do precious, weary souls rise up and fly,

To break the chains that old age cast and bind?

No! That is not what’s written for us all!

For even in the autumn, spring can thrive!

But pine-needles they must be through the fall,

Not heavy oak leaves struggling to survive…

My final autumn strikes with heavy hand.

I shrink. A fading leaf I will not be!

A stubborn needle, small upon the land,

Ready to live two centuries, wild and free…

To still remain so radiant, fresh, and green,

And to endow everyone with breath —

This is my shared, wise truth, profound, serene,

For travelers to the Life that knows no death.