Can we change the mirror man?
Why do the blind see love and the sighted see only it?
Do the robbed beliefs go to the tankers without hope?
Is the abyss beyond the horizon the vision of the abused?
Is lying a bulletproof vest for the elderly?
How do we prevent future icons from ringing?
Are we bait for reality pimps?
Is childish silence quieter than creation?
Do preachers of morality know what burnt human skin smells like?
I am Aoya and I come in every wave. I swam to the shore of human folly to open a scar on land and took the 25th hour of agony. To carry the cursed verses into the burning whisper of the bloom. To lead the childless Virgin from the world of possessions, child labor from sick societies, impaled questions of the heart from fear, and sing as a hymn the song of the endless oarsmen:
” Никой, никой на този свят не е излишен. С всеки този свят е по- съвършен.”

The silent contemplation gripped me like a pomegranate in a merciless fist. I let the manly beauty almost real with a face of a fairy and a stolen gaze intimately wander inside me. It is barbaric to falsely love her. Since then, with a glassy gait, I have inhabited scars, seen illuminated birds, peered through the boundary lock, sunk like the feather of a concept and emerged like a miracle in God's providence, among poems that sip dew and children that gather herbarium. My soul, like a white-footed spring, shyly watches as the smith of memory shoves her aspirations, blesses premonition and spring notions, and lays me to the seed of exclamations to lead, if not my beloved, into a Pack for Two.

The voice of silence did not linger long in the cave under the headscarf, nor in the empty stork's nest. He knows that death is not a trade.
It blooms in the immemorial majesty of burning paper and takes the pain out of the chest of the world.
Като любовник на цветове понася изкушението на гения, дневника на лудия и живата галерия на празното си поколение.
But it tactfully affirms that the womb of words is eternal, that the spring sentence as it flies does not syllabify, and the brilliance of an idea is the light writing of conscience.
The voice of silence, suffering sings. He washes away the bloody dramas with a spring soul. Don't scream in God's ear for them to shake hands.
But it blows up the gold mine of silence…
Did the choir of angels sing over the millions of overwhelmed miners?
Or returns the snowflakes to the Lord.

Behind the temple wall of verse the child in you keeps the soul of all alphabets. But if you touch him - he disappears, if he hugs you - you disappear. A real snow demon. It is as if it is a family tree that mourns on the childless earth for long-grown snowdrops or catches lightning like a house of ivy.