Vasilka Petrova Hadjipapa (Bulgaria)

 
Vasilka Petrova Hadjipapa (Bulgaria)
 
Vasilka Petrova – Hadjipapa is a Bulgarian born poet and theatre critic who has lived in Cyprus for the last 34 years. Collections of her poems have been published in Cyprus “Goulia Aera” (A Sip of Air), Nicosia 1983, and ”I Monadiki Lexi” (The only word), Nicosia 2009. 2003 she published her second book, “Otlojen Jivot” (Life on Hold), by the “Balkani” Publishing House, Sofia. 2009 the Bulgarian Publishing house “Plamak” published her book ”Orehovi dumi” (Words of Walnuts).Her poems are translated in English, French, Italian, Turkish and Albanian and were also presented in a number of anthologies.
 
Together with her husband, the known Cypriot writer Christos Hadjipapas, she translated Bulgarian poetry and drama into Greek. She presented to the Bulgarian public in an anthology her translations of Greek-Cypriot poems and prose, published by “Plamak” editions. She has translated many Cypriot writers and poets into Bulgarian. Vasilka Hadjipapa wrote for different Cypriot and some bulgarian newspapers for many years theatre reviews. He is member of the Bulgarian association of Writers and of the Cypriot Writers Union, of the PEN Club and the International Institute of Theatre.
 
 
MOURNING
 
I mourn
For the those killed.
I mourn
For the unburied.
I mourn
For those
Who are being killed this very moment,
For those
Who tomorrow will be killed.
I mourn for my helplessness,
For the ruined cities
and lives.
I mourn for our helplessness.
I mourn
For the hatred
That creeps into human hearts.
I mourn for carefreeness
For our lost daily life.
I’m afraid of the strings of death
That wrap the world’s heart.
I mourn for the bodies
that the ravenous green grass
will cover.
For the malice galloping on a horse
That has conquered the world.
I mourn for the people
Poisoned with hatred
followers of death
Victims of crawling snakes of inhumanity.
I MOURN FOR YOU
AND ME.
I MOURN FOR THE WORLD.
 
 
SO MUCH DEATH
 
What will humanity do
with so much death.
Heavy are the souls of the dead.
The heaviest – those of the children.
who haven’t yet lived,
Haven’t loved
Haven’t enjoyed
The sun, the moon,
The sea and water
Who haven’t smelled the colour of spring
As it faintly sets in
What shall we do with so much death
In the eyes and in the heart…
How, I wonder, are we to live
from here on in?
 
 
DOLLS’ HOUSES
 
The homes of bombed blocks
no longer have facades.
Tens of “dolls’ houses”
Before our eyes.
And the “dolls” –
Beneath the earth
In shelters
Or makeshift graves…
 
 
BLACK GRASS
 
The grass in the bombed cities
Is black.
The trees are black.
The bombed buildings
Are black.
Only the bodies of the dead
Are a bloody red…
Yet, if they remain unburied for days –
They too become black.
 
 
BALANCE
 
The scales of balance
between good and evil
has toppled over.
The disc of evil
weighs heavier.
It hurls fire and sulphur
to the hunted crowd.
It is about to consume
the entire world.
 
 

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