Portraits

Mihail Danailov Botev

As with loneliness.
Two rakias or a story.
A matter of mood.

As with children.
More than anything.
And more than fear.

As with mothers.
We understand them.
But they don’t understand us.

And as at a fair.
Whatever it is,
as long as it isn’t quiet.

Steps gone crooked,
seen through someone else’s
empty gaze.

They understand it as much
as the turnip understands the clouds.
It just goes on raining.

As with the drunken soul
of friends.
The friends carry on with it.