Разтягане на допира, Владимир Трендафилов


Stretching the touch

I touch with my ear

                       The hair

Of some girl in the crowd, sunlight

And a grey silhouette — strings

make me go deaf. Grass

                  seemingly grows  and a mole’s 

Nuzzling his way to the sound,

But it never succumbs. Walled up,

                       As if by bricks,

The ear is trying to say something aloud.