Beneath the silent weeping snow,
mine ears do catch the murmuring low
of stones that speak of days long fled—
of love entomb’d, of prayers unsaid,
of souls that wander pale and slight,
bereft of name, bereft of light.
O Sofia, thou city crown’d with scars,
whose heart still beats ‘neath ancient wars,
the smoke of ages clings to thee,
a ghost of pain, of memory.
For blood once spake when tongues were bound,
and mothers’ tears did wet the ground.
Behind Saint Nedelya’s sunder’d wall,
a tender hymn did softly fall—
a nun did love a foreign knight,
their vows were hush’d from mortal sight;
they loved ‘neath Heaven’s voiceless eye,
and vanish’d ‘ere the dawn drew nigh.
When crimson rule the night did freeze,
and silence chain’d men’s liberties,
the poets wrote in blood, not ink,
lest truth itself to shadow sink.
Their words became forbidden flame,
yet still they whisper Freedom’s name.
O Sofia, thou art not clay
nor mere abode of kings’ decay;
thou art a body wrought of pain,
whose breath revives the dead again.
Each stone, a prayer; each wound, a song—
to right the ages’ cruel wrong.
But lo—when dawn on Vitosha glows,
and melts the shroud of ghostly snows,
I see the shades in solemn grace
slow-wand’ring through thy dream-worn place;
not living men, but memories’ hue,
the restless hearts that once were true.
They move in silence, soft and slow,
with lilies white through falling snow;
and when the church bells toll but thrice,
love and sorrow in mist unite—
a trembling light, a spirit’s breath,
that lingers still, defying death.
Above thee, Sofia, dusk grows mild;
no longer cursed, but reconciled.
For lovers’ souls and warriors’ sighs
do weave their prayers through twilight skies,
guarding the realm where thou dost stand—
between the Earth and Heaven’s hand.
Няма коментари:
Публикуване на коментар