Spring roofs

It's getting dark. Got a cold. And it fell silent. Lights are falling from the sky. Even the Moon shuddered and sneezed, worried and seemed to shrink. And the town with stooped houses glistened under the sudden snow. It's not different, but it's not the same either. There is something magical about the night. There is some winter magic. Something real. Something good. Something small, but very important. And it looks like love.

At dusk, the city is strangely angular and strangely hidden in itself - evening roofs, an evening world over which the angels of the day pass. I can't sleep until late. Torn from walls, torn from streets, I hold the cup of my day and offer it to my late sleep. And he is populated with things, with friendships, with enmities he is populated, with rails and with thirsts in the world, which this fountain quenches. When I wake up, I see night darkness. The seeming calm covered the trees, the hushed park, the home, the gray neighborhood, the car, the parting (was it a parting?), the kiss deliberate and accidental, the old coat, the new coat, the secret brought tonight... And as the chestnuts of the city stand by the glass, for to hear those daytime noises in the night, which in dreams exist, until my last moment in this world deep inside me will still shine evening roofs, evening city over which the angels of the day pass.

Location: Sofia-OldTown, Bulgaria