HERE A GRAVE EXTENDED INTO THE EARTH...

Here a grave stretched into the ground,

there another one just smashed with a finger,

and over the third, swallowed in the grass,

I can barely contemplate a stone cross.

A poor country graveyard! Hardly

elsewhere the dead sleep

so peaceful, as here near the village,

near overgrown in burenaci road.

Deto sal invisible crickets

they sing their own song in loneliness

and the birch quiet news

of their lives speaks with leaves.

Pencho Slaveykov

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