Soul Tied to a Stallby blaga dimitrova

Night erases edges,absolving all thingsfrom themselves.

Forms break loosefrom their predestinations--perfect freedom, of a quiet kind.

I melt, I almost disappear--but thenone question yanks the reinthat ties me to the stall.

And in the morningtree and rock recovertheir own images at once, while I

am left to gropefor my identity. What happenedto the rope?