30 April 2015

Standing behind him, she was resting her hands on his hair and impulsively patting the long blond locks that were streaming down his shoulders.  He was staring in her face through the big barber’s mirror.  His pupils – so wide open, one can’t understand if he was scared, angry or excited.
His girlfriend was pacing up and down the room shooting requests and shouting instructions to the Other one how short the hair has to be cut.  It was all in vain – hardly heard and hardly noticed by those two.  They were just being quiet, looking silently in each other’s eyes, ricocheting intense stares through the mirror as if they were saying something.  No word came out of their mouth.  He was just sitting on the barber’s chair with his long strawberry blond hair scattered over his broad shoulders, screaming at her with his blue eye.
The voice of his shouting girlfriend was echoing away in the fog of his mind.  He wanted to talk to the Other one.  But all he could bring himself to do was to gawk at her hands slowly handling his hair, not touching the scissors.
Looking at the mirror all she could think was “Why me? Couldn’t anybody else cut your hair?”, but he wasn’t going to talk or say something.
Another holler from the back of the room startled her.  This time she grabbed the shears and patted the mane for one last time.  His hand reached for hers while still touching him and held it pressed firm on his head.
“Why would you cut this beautiful long hair?” she asked with a coarse voice as he pressed his hand on hers.
“That is the only way I can get you to caress me”, he whispered.
“Todaaaay!  Chop!  Chop!” his girlfriend was getting increasingly frustrated.
With heavy heart she took few slow breaths and started cutting.
“If cutting man’s mane is to surrender his power, I prefer to give it to you”, he smiled and closed his eyes delighted.
His girlfriend was on the phone at the back of the room planning their engagement.
He was sitting in the barber’s chair, indulging in every touch of hands of the Other one and planning a new beginning.  A different one... 

Till next surrender,
© 2015 - sophia terra~ziva all rights reserved


23 April 2015

Perched on the dry stonewall, dangling her chubby legs, Amadea was eating slowly her ice cream on a stick.  Drips of melted icy delight were turning into a pond on the mossy paves.  Drip-drop, drip-drop...  She was looking down at the busy traffic of the bull ants greedy to drench in this sweetness.
"That's enough mess for one day, young lady!" ordered from the kitchen window her mother and continued rhetorically - "What do you think you are doing there!""Me?  I am Humpty Dumpty", quick for her age answered Amadea and wiped her hands from the dripping ice cream on the back of her dress...

Till next ice cream,

© 2015 - sophia terra~ziva.  all rights reserved


22 April 2015

To all fallen solders who fought from the opposite shores and trenches during the WWI

Той не ни е вече враг –
живите от враговете
бурна ги вълна помете
нейде към отсрещний бряг.

Ето, в хлътналия слог
легнал е спокойно бледен
с примирена скръб загледан
в свода ясен и дълбок.

И по сивата земя,
топлена от ласки южни,
трепкат плахи и ненужни
с кръв напръскани писма.

Кой е той и де е бил?
Чий го зов при нас доведе,
в ден на вихрени победи
да умре непобедил?

Клета майчина ръка,
ти ли го в неволя черна
с думи на любов безмерна
утеши и приласка?

Смешна жал, нелепа жал,
в грохотно, жестоко време!
Не живот ли да отнеме
той живота свой е дал?

И нима под вражи стяг
готвил е за нас пощада? –
Не, той взе, що му се пада,
мъртвият не ни е враг!
  Димчо Дебелянов (1887 – 1916)


Now he’s an enemy no more.
The stormy wave has swept away
Those of our surviving foes
To pitch up on the opposite shore.

In the broken briars there
He lies pallid and at peace.
Watched over with measured grief
In a vault marked deep and clear.

And across this pale grey earth
Warmed by June’s caresses
Blood stained letters flutter
Of no further worth.

Where’s he from and who is he
Whose call led him to us
On a day of wild success,
To die without a victory?

Did you stroke and smooth
In black misery’s depth
A wretched mother’s hand
With words of boundless love

In a time of savage thunder
Pity’s funny, pity’s silly
Hasn’t he given his life
To take the lives of others?

And did he in his hostile corps
Really plan to grant us mercy?
He picked the cards that he was dealt.
The Dead man is our foe no more.
Dimcho Debelyanov (1887 – 1916)


© 2015 - sophia terra~ziva.  all rights reserved


12 April 2015

He was sitting quite numb, absorbing the news for his second child.  It was a girl.
Another girl!
One more little bundle he was looking forward to meet but the midwives wouldn’t let him in.  Not yet.
He stood up.  Than sat down again and looked around the hostile hospital corridor wondering how to stem the waves of feelings coming on tides.
Then he jumped and run down straight to his car.
He drove.  And drove.  And drove past the town waking to the first calls of the spring.  Passed few little villages and could see the skirts of the mountains, still blanketed with the last month’s snow.  He pulled over and walked in the field of wild saffrons that was just piercing the thin frozen layer of snow that tries to melt…  They looked like a meadow of myriad candles, burning with orange and purple flames.  He picked them and picked them till his two man’s hands couldn’t hold the bunch of little flowers.  Then he rushed as fast as he could go back to meet his newborn child.
When the midwives let him in, he couldn’t hold his emotions of joy and pride.  “I am a true dad with ribbons”, he smiled at his tired wife.  “Thank you!  She looks beautiful”, and he covered all her bed with the wild saffron he picked from the mountains.  They tried to give each other a kiss but were too overwhelmed of feelings so all they could do is wipe each other’s tears.
Yes, she looked red, still wrinkled from swaddling nine months in her mum's womb and very tired from the first breast milk feed.  I guess she couldn’t be perfect…  To her parents she looked beautiful.  And only saffron can come close to it.

Thank you all for your heartfelt wishes for my birthday!

© 2015 - sophia terra~ziva.  all rights reserved

ZORBA WAS HERE – project “52”

2 April 2015

“All those who actually live the mysteries of life haven't the time to write, and all those who have the time don't live them!  D'you see?” 
“A man needs a little madness, or else... he never dares cut the rope and be free.”
Nikos Kazantzakis, ZORBA THE GREEK

Thank you for visiting,

© 2015 - sophia terra~ziva.  all rights reserved

Proudly designed by Mlekoshi playground