As I was walking
along the river,
I suddenly saw
a stone in the grass.
Taking off my rounded glasses,
I bent over to read:
"Here in this place a poet rests
with talent enough for five more yet.
By the name of Hristov he was called,
and was fairly loved by one and all.
He shuffles the eras and the epochs
as if slicing time on chopping blocks.
The verbal Balkans' steep inclines
he masters in his lyrical lines.
Though muses swarm around him,
very little poetry they beget.
And any sharp looks that you give him,
you'll almost certainly regret.
You, O critic so noble and so gallant
look upon this innate talent,
which in its spirit and its style
is like nothing before seen
But alas and alack!
He has departed for Bdin."
Translated by Angela Rodel