I hardly will live

all my own days.

My blood is loaded

with disruption

and with questions

wich wallop my temples

to white – hot.

Why am I?

Who am I?

Where staing time?

If I am still here

when my pulse

is raving mad

and after it is

menacingey intermittent?

I don’t believe

in the last accounts –

the senility`s scales

are so faithless.

But in one instant

before to explode

I will know

who are dead

and alive

why are...

  Translation Polina Todorova