Отклонения, лирически и прозаически
Вечерен тромпет Evening Trumpet
Борис Христов Boris Hristov

Under flaming sun life fiddles with us
     we rub out our feet from the hot stone...
But when evening descends from the heavens,
     I will take my trumpet and sit on the threshold.

Enough have I wandered around those walls
     like the chime of a bell that was broken.
I have to play it, I have to tear down
     the silence - and let but the cry to persist.

I want the wind torrid to howl and
     to blast wide open the doors.
I want the earth to start marching anon
     after the crusade of the crickets.

I want the barbed wire round your home
     with my song to sever.
I want the neighbour that pretends
     to be deaf to recover his hearing.

I want the thief his fingers to tie,
     the warden a heart to buy for himself.
I want some of my tears to shed
     into the eye that is rusting.

I want the fair to us to return
     again - to sweep off the dust.
I want him to die of laughter and tickle
     who is dying of boredom.

I want us over the dead
     to keep sentry till morning.
I want to all sleepers to say:
     there is time enough to be sleeping...

I have to play in the numb night
     until I hear coming to me
     The voice of a thousand trumpets of distant.
Or of an archangel invisible.