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We are impotent being erect to trespass through the door
The door becoming a mesh and clamping us
Bending us and coiling packing us
The tongues are swelling blackening
The tongues are thickening, benecktied
Out of the butchery the Angus Dei is sticking out its tongue
With a muscle bitten and benumbed
We are impotent passing straight the final
Of flesh like this, of its gray gristles
Left is not the decapitated breath
And left is not the sense of much ponder
Not that that never grows a truth
For there is nothing real in its end

2007

© Maria Virhov
© Stanimir Panajotov, translated from bulgarian
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© E-magazine LiterNet, 04.04.2006, № 4 (77)