In her Arms

In her arms:

White moon bright, the gypsy girl,

beneath the bridge in Kyustendil,

smiles wide,

flashing teeth as bright

as the cyclist skin – there to make a deal.

She’s always there.

Tonight she’ll hold her novice

As he cries away a dream

With drawn lines as crisp as Osogovo

cut sharp

Against heart-break hues

Lilac, violet, blues

It lasted only weeks,

Bitter most of them

But acid cuts scar deep

When sugar is applied

And crystalised in compressed time

It burns and burns again

Road side comfort, cheep to find,

Will blind the eyes that weep

For now

By morning’s chill though

Deep regret will acidify the pill

Only time

And more of that

Will mend his life-long ill.