Then comes the time for transformation.
The stork stands on the utility pole like something
out of a nightmare, bloodied by the sunset.
My eyes look toward the sky to see nothing,
Grey dust everywhere sticks to the soul.
The sight of brown horses tearing downhill at a mad pace fades
away from memory.
In the bombed city somebody plays the piano
in a collapsed house.
You can find them everywhere, day and night, all the time.
Small, big ones, different shapes and sizes, all kinds.
They used to build cities with them, altars, cathedrals,
monuments and fortresses.
But they too have a soul.
You can’t see it, but you can hear how almost subtly
This happens only at night when it’s dead quiet outside
and even the crickets are sleeping.
Then they talk to each other, telling stories of hard
times, of pharaohs and monumental greatness,
of Christians and Colosseums, of women in burqas
stoned to death, of Stone Age and the people back
then, of Rome, of Rome, of Rome.
But they can also see ahead in the future and they
whisper to each other of times when we will not be here
anymore and again it will be their kingdom. Until the next
About the Author: Peycho Kanev is the author of four poetry collections and two chapbooks, published in USA and Europe and his poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, Sierra Nevada Review and many others.