(For Hristo Poljanski)
To this small (and cold) age
We gave our warmth –
We warmed it with sweet words
And cared about its growth…
To his small (and muddy) age
We gave our clarity –
Carried by its sweet flow
We interpreted it briskly…
To this small (and cursed) age
We addressed all our vulgar curses –
It scolded us with gurgling words;
We were far too demanding…
Of this small (and tripped-up) age
We became advocates –
With glamour and clamour, with cure
Dreamers! Lovers!…
To this small (and kneeling) age
We offered our hand –
We found a remedy for it
And drank in its health…
To this small (and kicked-off) age
We gave renewal –
We kept it alert:
Preservers! Presenters!