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The night opens like a black umbrella and from somewhere comes the quietest music ever heardā sometimes absolute silence can be violent. And loneliness can be another form of purification. The mind screams I am, I am, I am, and very rarely We. Lately, my depression has taken the colors of the clouds hanging above my full glass, and thatās also a kind of confession. And the night rages on. The sadness comes from those raindrops crashing on the sidewalk that I know by heart, followed by the immortal morning when the most vain promises are made. My beard turns white, my life turns gray. The music continues. The sadness is hidden in the blue sky, which will one day cease to be what it is. Just not today.
Peycho Kanev is the author of 12 poetry collections and three chapbooks, published in the USA and Europe. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as Rattle, Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, and Sierra Nevada Review.