As if it were an endless autumn
silently one by one they leave
and buds already appear on branches
airy pollens are floating in flight
but the invisible leaves of March
in suspended breaths ‒ without time ‒
yield to the breeze their soul, their voice
as they are unravel lonely in a chant.
(March 28, 2020)
To Marisa Provenzano, Mario Benedetti and the friends who left us
Thanks to Alexander Shurbanov for the revision of the English version of the poem.
And thanks to Emilia Mirazchiyska