The Apple tree and the Sun

a folk-poem braiding my two languages, rewritten in one and read in the other

The Sun has paused in the Apple tree

contemplating his daily ascent.

In love to the core, she glows with glee,

blushes red, wafting her scent

and quivers her sun-dappled leaves.

Laden with fruit is her bosom,

where not one but thirty hearts ache,

wounded by bitter-sweet sorrows,

pulsing with tender despair,

as she yearns for his sunny caresses.

The blue morning mist is her veil,

the late evening rain — crystal necklace.

And two laughing blackbirds all day

blow yellow flutes, sing serenades —

She’s not merely a bride, but a princess!

The Apple believes them. She’s pretty!

No matter that autumn is near,

that wet is the rain and not crystal,

that thirty hearts aching will kill her

the morning the pale Sun grows distant.

She barely feels how they’re falling.

The hearts go first, then the leaves.

If she’s a bride or a princess,

she no longer wonders, ache lifting

as she loses her senses for him.

The Sun rests again in the Apple,

light on her bare twigs and branches.

Unveils the mist-morning, stars gathers,

then rushes up mid-sky to search for

two yellow-flute blackbirds, still laughing.

🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛

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The original Ябълкова Обич in Bulgarian:

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