Evening Trumpet

Борис Христов

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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.


Оригинално заглавие: "Вечерен тромпет".