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Rositza Pironska – (pironska)

Rositza Pironska


from Ducks-Begonia
(translated by the author and Travis Jeppesen)

the memories and the mirage that pain and painter tally for most parts of
themselves i wouldn’t use that tress from childhood closed in a box and put
in a locker some spiders around the wooden casket some scared bugs



there was a river.
it seems he’s made the silence the cause of the curves and the trajectories,
the cause of the hats in greenandyellow on the weekends. that high hotel
room where one could sleep in a bunkbed wasn’t quieter than the little
cap’s cracked bottoms
THAN the silence made me until he had unbecome a bird



when i threw one small ball of bread in the high-handed direction that i
have manipulated for quite some time between my fingers… some go in
fear of too much bread in their dreams, mine, though, i put all smallballs of
bread in the right order and made a bridge (boomerang)
two ducks were everything that one could call aguea



this mask of profound silence, gathering the sounds somewhere down in the cavity
i dreamt an earth without boundaries on the map some escaping earth
unfolding in another quadrant of that same map purchased the following
morning. the grass the rivers the woods there have no names.
also my dreams don’t carry their names. the one and only inhabitant
spreads its name as a sign but when i overtake him he disappears and calls
himself invisibly upon a cloud


there isn’t always one sun between the sunset and the fogs.
it illuminated some blurred colored fence or something as a plumb field
where the letters without address were too overly abstract as a cultivated in
yourself illness
as the deep arches in the names with some little leaves the difference.
ended with some superfluous answers, with marigold which accepted as
hope as there is hope but then fall back turned out as well unaddressed letter, an endlessness
new attempts whose moments succeeded in trailing away groantons maybe
painful nevertheless the pronounced continued as a river (boomerang) around
the reeds and the aspens where only if you have been out of yourself you
would chance on traces of light flyings light dig-ness of the sense




            it was a duck.
the sun of the south soft the heels stick on the asphalt i pour water and wait
the desert i cry and fall low next to the axis which is a woman she stands up
pours something into a broadbottom glass, assuredly water, i leave out her
biography wait still for quite a long long time the geography of her skin which is mine yours …
you see!, there is a photo of a dead one on the corner from within the
corner they don’t sleep there aren’t beds lie on the map but they say that’s
exactly the dream, their dream

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