Where have you gone

Where have you gone
with your confident
walk with
your crooked smile

why did you leave me
when you took your
laughter
and departed
are you aware that
with you
went the sun
all light
and what few stars
there were?

Where have you gone
with your confident
walk your
crooked smile the
rent money
in one pocket and
my heart
in another . . .
© Mari Evans

Blaga Dimitrova's "Ars Poetica"

Write each of your poems
as if it were your last.
In this century, saturated with strontium,
charged with terrorism,
flying with supersonic speed,
death comes with terrifying suddenness.
Send each of your words
like a last letter before execution,
a call carved on a prison wall.
You have no right to lie,
no right to play pretty little games.
You simply don’t have the time
to correct your mistakes.
Write each of your poems,
tersely, mercilessly,
with blood — as if it were your last.
(Translated from the Bulgarian by Ludmilla G. Popava-Wightman)
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