Autumn is a strictly individual experience that leaves no one indifferent. Even the most poetic soul cannot deny the presence of more peculiar vibrations in the air when the multicolored leaves begin to break away from the branches and fly down, gently summoned by their eternal grave - the earth. In this poetic season, I offer you the following selection of poems by contemporary Bulgarian authors who dared to write about the changes occurring in nature and in the mind during the autumn months.



I thwart
empty bottle
I'm coming
yellowed fas
and I think - they have left over from the summer
only cliches.

~ Peter Chukhov

Autumn II


Among the silent leaves themselves,
which no longer belong to the trees
and they are so infinitely yellow -
only out of love can
so close their eyes.

Bribing Autumn Fall

before sinking into itself

air caress looking around.

~ Axinia Mikhailova

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Beginning of autumn


Maria enters
in the seventh month

the fruit in her belly

~ Georgi Gavrilov




Autumn Square
only the faith bathes in the fountains,
that somewhere is forever July.

~ Elena Tasheva



Immersed in the rumola
on dry leaves,
amid congested acorns
silently walking.
A whisper reaches me,
I turn negligently,
I see her eyes,
gently amber.
Ethereal and mysterious,
proceeds whimsically,
completely mysterious,
the earth does not reach.
The presence is magical
the wood fills,
I instantly recognized her -
autumn is beautiful.

~ Evgeny Mihalska


Autumn is not the season
it is a story
for courage.

~ Christina Guteva


When for the last


that looks like summer,
is sweeter than summer.
that looks like a youth,
is sweeter than youth.

~ Maria Doneva



to the recent past,
the shadows in the garden are falling,
you count their autumn.

~ Theodora Totev



The first flags of rain
they fell before us.
In white and black - cut off the stage.
It's autumn. Don't you see?
how rotten the pupils burn,
outdated in the rain by the endless stare?…
It's autumn.
And the stopped cry is back
without my summer harmony -
without her and in the morning.
The child stopped in the middle of the rail
tired of running.
Only the horses pass after a silent call
and throw away the mud with the hoof,
like time lost somewhere.
It's quiet. It's autumn.
The beginning of winter.

~ Dobromir Turnovski

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