I sit down at the edge of myself
close my eyes
take a breath
and at my feet
come running to curl up
like well-behaved puppies
thousands of moments
in which I was
happy somewhere
happy with someone
a small cafe in plovdiv
a tiny forest in the rhodope mountains
a book shop
a beach at dawn
the alley that leads
from the park towards a pier
the moments in which
I was happy are
so countlessly many
that I can spend my whole life
from this moment on
reliving them
I can stop living
I can stop me
I can put a period at the end
I can live from this moment on
in serried happiness
made to weep by its own excess
made to weep by how happy it was
poor little happiness

the little happiness weeps knowing
that if I don’t take the time to think of it
if I ignore my own access to it
if I didn’t have the key
to the box of memories
where would they be kept
where would they go
they have already passed
someone already threw them away
someone already used them up
decided they were no longer useful
trashed them as a consumer would
without keeping their memory
not even a grain of it
a crumb of lemon pie
or the glass you drank wine from that time

sooner or later along with me
the key will also disappear
the box will stay
locked and forgotten
we will put an end
we will cash out
we will foot the bill
without waiting for change

the innkeeper
not now not ever
won’t care about it

текстът участва във второто издание на Klaxon Press
превод на Моника Георгиева


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