“To die, to sleep—
No more—and by a sleep to say we end!”
– Shakespeare /Hamlet: Act 3, scene 1/
Likewise a pilgrim
(like all of us)
in that even autumn
I wander an echo
of ancient laughter.
Echoing
among friezes and stones,
and alabaster
like every laughter,
carefree,
from a heart in love.
I know not myself. I shan’t recall.
My children bathed in the dew of dusk.
And bread they broke from my palm.
My blood shan’t be redeemed by anybody.
And I wish them not
to drink my dust.
On the red road
the man moves on
like a fiery bloomed rose.
.
Bozhidar Pangelov
.