The Art of Marxism: poetry
No way you can sleep nights in Varna,
no way you can sleep:
for the wealth of stars
so close and brilliant,
for the rustle of dead waves on the sand,
of salty weeds
with their pearly shells
and pebbles,
for the sound of a motorboat tnrobbing like a heart at sea
for the memories filling my room,
coming from Istanbul,
passing through the Bosporus,
and filling my room,
some with green eyes,
some in handcuffs
or holding a handkerchief-
the handkerchief smells of lavender
No way you can Sleep in Varna, my love,
in Varna at the Bor Hotel.