A Story

Дамян Дамянов


Were you asleep?
I woke you up –
forgive my coming now!
My soul is fretted madly
into the arms of its own sorrow…

I am alone, and how I wish to speak…
my lips are stuck together with the silence.
But drive me not away – soon I'll be gone.
I came here with the weeping of the storm.
I’ll sit here, closer to your head,
and tell a story now,
wherein a sage of old
a moral sad has given:
"…A bandit there was,
that, always on the road, had never had a home.
Instead of heart, he had inside his shirt
a hidden, evil, bloody knife.
He waited for belated caravans
and only in the daylight hid his dagger;
this knife was never rusted from the blood,
the man was evil as the devil.
But once it happened that, from weariness asleep,
he lay upon a crossroad in the sun.
The hurried passers-by did kick him in their ways
and no one stopped beside his head.
A girl in rags was only there
to cover up his face with fallen leaves.
He cried – 't was the first time ever someone loved him.
He cried, the bandit, why?
What warmed the hardened heart
that never in his life felt warmth?
A hand it was to make
the tears rush from his blooded eyes.
A hand – 't was warmer than a fireplace -
gave to the thug the thing
no robbery, no cut off head could ever buy."

But, oh, you fell asleep… and I’m so cold!
That girl of fairytales, where is she gone?
She warmed the bandit, and never
did you warm me this way. And why?