From the point of view of the sodden soil

From the point of view of this sodden soil

Where already yesterday morning, with the rain,

The giant drop of water entered with one move

As a paw swiping over in a second;

 

From the point of view of the sixth-walled hard particles of soil,

Which were lying in their stone beds,

In their wooden coffins, rubbing their sleeves,

Turning their keys in dark basements;

 

From the point of view of this water and this soil,

Kneaded in a dark dough

Expanding into all the growing things.

 

this nameless soil, where names are sprouting as they fall between the teeth of the human sentences; which move aimlessly as calm water, until they are scooped by human nails,

Get under human nails, scooped and offered before a studying and all-critical gaze,

Sent by a commanding voice not tolerating opposition,

To the sink,

The little bathroom under the stairs where

A smell of mold has settled as a kingdom

Ready to ripen.

 

The nails shine as pale moons, scraped clean by the sisters hands, and

the particles of soil sink into dark channels, accompanied by stellar nebulae of fluffs of wool and hair, and the wet dirt from the corners of the room, and the antennae of the cockroaches, thinking with thoughts smaller than zeros and minus ones and covered in the endless eternal water, in the other world.

 

Some of the roads the soil could take (away from the images) reveal themselves where the plants aren't with their earnest stalks, repeating again and again, again and again,

The green water, goose-fleshed and flowing down on itself; where the view is a pedestal, benevolently wrapped around the soil: a horizon of jagged clouds, roofs, buildings, jagged trees, miniature teeth-nibs on the violet back of the mountain, uneven coils;

Leaves arranged in a circle as richly ornamented belts or hands, braided in the most surprising forms of handshakes.

All is hiding; all is set, in waiting, as the light descends as an ethereal conqueror.

the light of this hour lays its colors over the old ones – a change which takes place imperceptibly, as a broken knee and the thought of it, taking place while you wake up amidst thunder and jingling of city tram-ways, in a town which is not your own;

 

From the point of view of the sodden soil

the light climbs over the jagged ridges of the shorter than inch mountains; snickers crossing in different hours of the time flowing everywhere have left perfect trails, DNA chains of circles and triangles, to which the straw makes company, a fast friendship at the end of the night, when the air was squeezed ever further and imprints of lips are left on the soil, fuller and thinner stripes of lips, which give an image to the dark soil, an image which stands silent and draws a circumference, an image, which we contemplate, while in our bodies move liquids and none of us knows where the other one will go in a while when the night falls and presses the edges of the streets and the trees as atlases lose hold of the tired darkness, when in a little while the white steam of our lips would sеt out in an unknown direction.


Stefan Krastev is based in Sofia, Bulgaria. He has been writing poetry and short fiction for more than 6 years. Stefan's background is in Social Anthropology, he has a MA in Sociology and Social Anthropology form the Central European University in Budapest. Currently he is managing the Social and Political Debates Program of the Red House Center for Culture and Debate in Sofia.