On the one hand, crowds by a trolley stop
celebrating victory in ‘his’ stadium; on the other,
your hesitation translating a word as we walk past
the National Academy of Arts towards his monument.
No absence here more felt. The bronze face looks out
on the streets of Sofia where we walk through
divergent legacies and begin unexpected stories.
Perhaps in an underground church beside
the metro station we’re closer than we think.
Like Yeats, he became his admirers –
and not so far from the scene of that regime’s crime
linden trees paint light across their upturned faces.