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Blue

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It’s like a dream like snow like rain,

as if spring and autumn, and winter …

Your shadow over the young rye

curled like a cloth of blue.

A sad set of joke

as and partridge is interwoven.

And an aromatic sadness

started to slightly revive you.

I stopped, I stopped and closed my eyes,

probably to experience you.

And the soul guiltily, guiltily silent

only the shadow passed through it.

Only the wind, the wind,

chicken some sort of jargon.

Ah, what kind of blue we’ve ever forgotten here.

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dream

Written by Georgi Tsachev