Numb and quiet, I’m sitting all alone

on a patch of pavement, cold, dark stone

underneath my thighs, sending shivers

through my whole body; it quivers.

The air is fresh.

Bring it on, the time is right

for the worst of wars, for the best of fights,

I am cold as water and I’m dry as ice,

I can bring my hand and pick on a slice

of flesh.

Drawing lines in the cold, pale sand,

I am whispering to the whole damn land,

this is where I sit, this is where I stand.

No, you can’t be here, we cannot be friends.

You need to go.

Powerful, I am feeling energetic

as I play alone, as I rhyme in my poetic

silent monotone. Who am I? Am I static,

am I one of those, who are a little psychopathic?

Answer’s no.

животът е една макара

конецът, когато е чисто нов

неразвит

недокоснат

е чист и лъскав

но после започва развиването

и този конец се прекарва през иглата

а цялостта му се нарушава

и той се развива

и развива

и по пътя си започва да скубе собствените си коси

започва да губи блясъка си

да губи чистотата си

и накрая

когато е развит докрай

остава една макара

празна и студена макара

без плът

без предназначеност

без полза

‘a life a day’ is what they say

‘a life a day’ they take away

it's also many people's fate

it holds the locks to hell's gate

‘a man a night’ is his own right

‘a man a night’ to fuck or bite

it keeps him warm, his head is light

‘a man a night’ to keep the fight

‘a secret stare’ and he's aware

‘a secret stare’ to hold the heir

to keep him under longing glare

made not to share, but crown to wear

‘a bloody mask’ to hold a task

‘a bloody mask’, what more to ask?

the hidden face behind that mask

is rich in words, tho lives in a cask

‘a happy face’, so out of space

‘a happy face’ - such big disgrace!

their happiness is not the case

a happy face means horror days

‘a golden crown’ to force a bow down

‘a golden crown’ worn with a frown

the gold is lust, it makes a sound

within the ones who live in town

all the royals want to keep your name in past tense

but you keep your soul out of reach

all the kids are saying things that make no real sense

all the teachers try but fail to really teach

pick a piece of mirror up

fool yourself, eat it, drop it,

breath it in, pop it on your tongue,

break it, take it, cut your lip,

lick a little piece's dirt away

leave it after,

crawl back in hell

and pray

You see yourself in the mirror up front,

you feel like hell, trying hard to move on.

You know it’s nothing but a fleck of light,

but underneath it reflects your life.

The chapped lips, not soft at all,

burning with desire to let out a growl.

The messed up hair, flying each way,

creating a crown for a homeless stray.

The huge light eyes, scared to death

of finding a speck of future ahead.

The furrowed brows, incredulously high,

showing no emotions, seeking no reply.

Your face is pale, your frame is dark.

You know it’s rare to see a spark

in eyes so dead, in breath so cold.

Are you a mirror for pure gold?

Are you a demon hiding under skin,

erasing memories, replaced by sins?

Are you the rage that bubbles in your mind?

Are you the only one of your kind?

Are you an animal, blamed for mistakes

that were made by people who you see as steaks?

Are you the flower that never grew up,

instead found dead under dirty black mud?

Are you a cloud in the morning sky

when no clouds should be there, when they should all hide?

Are you the door that the attic would need,

that leads to the dust and the never-neat.

Are you a chair that has long been forgotten,

that has been left alone to get dirty, wet, rotten?

That creaks as it’s lifted and thrown in the fire,

that cries with hatred, burns with desire?

Are you the wolf that howls in the night,

the dry grass illuminating his only moonlight?

Are you the darkness creeping up in their minds,

creating spaces from time to time?

Are you the emotion that nobody knows?

The one that just grows, grows, grows…

and explodes.

Незнайно кога, как и защо,

във малко градче се случило то:

Преди много години, накрай един квартал,

млад човек край пътя седял.

Отпивал от малко шишенце с вода,

пръсти прокарвал през тъмна коса,

поглеждал нагоре към сградите сиви,

а после в небето – към звездите красиви.

Сливащ се плътно със мрака потаен,

той вдигнал поглед към пътя незнаен.

Не го привличала тъй тишината,

колкото чуждото отвъд светлината.

Уличните лампи не греели ясно,

но сенки оставяли по платното тясно.

Сенки, будуващи в тъмната нощ,

единствени там за вечерната мощ.

Полунеразбран и напълно пленен,

човекът изправил се от асфалта студен.

Последен поглед хвърлил напред

и тръгнал, следван от своя силует.

Не щеш ли обаче след крачка една,

напълно огрят от лунна светлина,

за миг той се спрял и трепет усетил,

след което станал на пепел.

.

Под улични лампи и сенки неподвижни,

единствени будуващи в квартала безгрижен,

вятърът духнал и отвял пепелта

и спомен от нея не останал в нощта.

Но алеята, все така мрачна, задушна,

била като сън за дете малодушно.

И не човек бил скитника пленен,

а сянка на клетник след поредния ден.

no human being is better than a friend

because in the end

we're all rotting corpses

with different talents and voices

with different eyes

of different spice

no need for kindness

we all form a world of

blindness

no need for attention

hell will be your detention

and the speck of survival ahead

will chase you down to your deathbed

and who am i to reach out

when i don't even know what

i am always, so often

going on about