Bulgarian born Ilija Trojanow writes in both German and English. In English he is known as Ilya Troyanov.

Angkor Wat 1
South-western outer wall, 23/05/2002

Let’s presume the artist
carved leaves out of bark
and stuck them on trees,
speared by the thrust of soldiers
marching out of their lives.

The arteries of the leaves,
the scalpel edge of the spear –
blood is never spilled on bas-reliefs.
Worshipping hands caress the calves,
the warriors saved from time’s disdain.

***

Angkor Wat 2
North-eastern outer wall, 23/05/2002
 

If you can imagine Eden
you will enter heaven.
All sculptors failed.
I am only inspired,
one of them confessed,
lifting a glass too many
in the after-hours of sold-out love,
when I bend down
to chisel away at hell.
The moment my foot
steps on the ladder
my fingers become numb.

*** 

Overgrown
Ta Prohm, 22/05/2002

Green is the upper side of wet,
the sulphate shade of oblivion.

Who can decipher the doctrine
of tight nooks and parasitic syllables?

We will always feed on the past,
the exiled greenery proclaims.

The gods agree, of course,
the servants lose their heads.

They have misunderstood another order ­
the niches are empty of diamonds and gold.

Terminal detachment rooted in stone.

*** 

Delta Rhyme
Can Tho, 27/05/2002

Two curved rainbows hanging in the sky
There are two curved rainbows hanging in the sky.

Partisan features of the darkest cloud.

Now if one curved rainbow should accidentally fly
There’ll be one curved rainbow hanging in the sky.

When the monsoon speaks the party listens.

One curved rainbow hanging in the sky
There is one curved rainbow hanging in the sky.

The waterways are free of corpses.

Now if one curved rainbow should accidentally fly
There’ll be no curved rainbows hanging in the sky.

Never will the earth clean the sky.

One notch higher the poet speaks to mandarins
Temple of Literature, 08/06/2002

It was here
underneath these beams
that the students surfaced for clarity,
a well-worded page away from heaven.

Admitted to glory and concubines
your name carved in blue
and carried to posterity by turtles
you might choose to forget:

There is but one character
for pain, for despair
and the melting footsteps
of a retreating army.

©IljaTrojanow