What kind of soup did my father enjoy as a child,
did he clean his plate,
what did he hide under the big pillow,
at what word of the story did he fall asleep,
did the bombings truly frighten him.
I’ll never learn any of this,
my fatherland has been irrevocably lost
The air is so desolate
that I clearly hear the schedule of the train station
and the harbor siren embraces me.
Author: Marin Bodakov
Translator: Katerina Stoykova