That Spring was like any other Spring.
The sky was clear and hard after a rainy night.
The windows of the houses were shining,
the tiles above the eaves were shining,
the wet grass was shining
and the sun sucked flames
out of the lake. The grass was growing
and the trees budding imperceptibly.
On the road from the park,
paled by idleness
five legless men were going
home in their wheel chairs.
They were looking at the young leaves on the branches
sparkling under droops of rain
like many coloured chandeliers,
and they thought joylessly
that Spring had come and everything was growing
except the two sad stumps left them
by the iron hail of war.
This is what they were thinking, as other wheeled chairs,
prams, were coming towards them from the other side:
mothers and nannies had come out
with their rosy little children
for the morning walk.
The meeting was unexpected and unpleasant.
The women went on their way in silence.
And the cripples watched the prams
for a long time
and a huge grief, impotent anger,
swelled in their souls;
life seemed to be an insult,
and the light a mockery
that shot at them
from every pane and puddle,
poured through the green trees
dripping from the wet leaves.

Translated from Bulgarian by Roy Macgregor-Hastie.

Library | Atanas Dalchev