THE WISDOM OF THE TORTOISE

By Yasen Vedrin

(Pearl Seeker)

I still possess a true and shining reason

For this amazing concept we call "life."

And I believe, before my final season,

I’ll slow my hurried pace within the strife.

The summers passed at first sight, quickly spinning,

As if towards the end my stride was bound.

But my own soul, pure to its deep beginning,

Whispered these weary words with no more sound…

"Stop for a moment in your flight, O mortal!

The end will come, whether you wish or not!

And instead of soaring near the distant portal,

Kneel down at least just once upon your plot.

For only thus you'll see a bright bud growing,

Or catch the sunbeams in the morning dew,

While winds with trembling wisdom ever blowing

Will whisper holy calls from skies to you.

Transform a single minute to an hour.

Stretch out the instant to a joyful day.

Even the unheard word will give you power —

Once heard, you will be filled with meaning's ray..."

The soul grew still. The thought went out of vision.

Then flashed again beneath a crimson dome.

I still possess a true and shining reason

For this amazing concept of our home…

Is it not like that shelter we've inherited,

In which you live through centuries, secure,

When like a tortoise, wise and deeply merited,

You turn the minutes into hours, pure?

WHEN THE SUN ROLLS DOWN

By Yasen Vedrin

(Gold Coins in the Oak Chest)

When the sun rolls down steeply to west in its flight,

And the sunset has painted white clouds with its breath —

Come out to the porch with dock-leaves, green and bright,

And two glasses of wine for our dreams beyond death.

Do not rush with the house-chores until it grows dark.

Rest your tired old head on my shoulder right now.

For a moment let’s look — past the roof, through the spark

Of the leaves, to that holy and sacred blue brow.

We plowed it so long — with white prayers and our dreams,

Yet until this very day not a daisy it bore.

We waited for Advent. Rare words, with no streams...

And a warm round of loaf, sprinkled with stars anymore.

The time has bent down, like a hoop on the ground,

And the old fellow-wind started sweeping the dust.

Take a sip of the wine! Gales will soon spin around!

And let God then caress us from above, if He must...

Just as we are together, He’ll snatch us unread.

With cross-clouded palms warm our souls in a dome.

And if this unearthly glance still rocks us ahead,

Then we’re surely in Heaven, but this side of home...

The tears start to swell. Final autumn rains pour.

It grows yellow on ridges. On gray stone it beats.

But somewhere — up there — the sky-flower we adore

Hears us all! It blooms, withers. And blooms in the streets...

I DO NOT WISH TO DIG THE FURROW DEEP

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.

THE BOY WHO HURTS INSIDE

By Yasen Vedrin

(Gold Coins in the Oak Chest)

Will You give me back, Lord, all those years of a blue-eyed idyll?

So the aged in me can grow young like a boy at his start.

And when someone demands: "Did you drink from the river of sorrow?"

I would hide with no answer, with faith of a sparrow's heart

I am seeking my space — not the one that is endlessly high,

But the rope where my mother would hang all the laundry to dry.

And I wish for my dreams — not as juices that springtime receives,

But the ones where I scraped up my hands and my knees in the leaves...

I want mornings by river-pools, filled with acacia's sweet breath.

Or the evenings at cinema, watching the hum of machines.

Give me blue canvas shoes... Even grandpappy's wooden clogs, blest.

Give me back those same eyes lost in childhood, and all of its scenes.

Plow my memory deep, for they sank in the soil and the clay —

All those colorful years of a bright and a living world-fair.

Only faint, faded dreams sometimes warm me with sounds on the way,

To remind of the past which returns nevermore to the air.

And to say I'm alive — for what reason? To fill up their sheets?

Or perhaps I’m a sickness no doctor on earth can endure...

From the jail of the future, dear Lord, give me amnesty, please!

I just want my own freedom... The boy who is hurting, so pure.

IF YOU CAGE MY WANDERING FATE

By Yasen Vedrin

(Gold Coins in the Oak Chest)

If you cage my wandering fate in a narrow shell's trace —

I will stay by your side, never asking if bitterness lies.

Just to have your sweet breath — as a balm for my spirit so rough,

And those lookers enclosed in a quiet hope within your eyes.

With the darkened old tinder we’ll kindle a hearth for us two.

We will fill the cezve to simmer with magical weeds.

And along the tight paths of a memory, anxious and true,

Every ghost of the past will foretell us and speak of our deeds.

Unregretted bright spring will soon meet with the summer so hot.

Autumn will spread out for winter a mattress of leaves.

Our hair will turn white — like a silver flock's fortunate plot.

Our hands will keep whispering, just as a mouth loves and cleaves.

And the world, once a den, will become quite possible then.

That bright space up above the asleep mists within the maple tree.

If you cage my lone fate — cage it just as you love in your glen,

Embracing till pain... And you know that it hurts sweet and free.

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…