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Начало › Kerana Stoyanova › Poets › SECRET
Within its greenish throat the bell
Was pounding heavily its tongue.
The toll passed by the osier-bed to tell
The sunstruck village something wrong.
In under- tone the women spoke above the fences
And men held their crumpled caps, remembering the dead;
A cat with orange flames instead of eyes
Passed through the lazy afternoon and went ahead.
When she was half- her way, amid the dust
Of almost arid field, a woman writhed.
Her belly moved like mound alive
The air smelled of milk and blood.
The moment is the same - of death and birth.
The bell is frantically servicing the dead one.
Why should it be so, when the mirth
Of new-born life is streaming from the heaven?
The question is to no one to be solved-
The dead himself lies smiling in his dream;
His secrets are taboo to every living soul.
He may confess them but to the Redeemer…
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