One of the Bulgarian authors I mentioned is Nikola Vapcarov

Preview:

It is a strange experience to read Vaptsarov today as the revolutionary movement is receding and resurgent capital is capturing the imagination of one and all. Born on 7 December in 1909, he belonged to the interwar generation where brilliant minds sought to inherit the mantle of revolutionaries of bygone eras and to integrate themselves with the surge of revolutionary working class and peasant movements. He built upon the legacy of Hristov Botev the Bulgarian nationalist poet of the 19th century and that of Gorky and Mayakovsky. He was not alone in this and had his peers in England in David Guest or Caudwell, Lorca in Spain or Hikmet in Turkey, Brecht in Germany and Faiz in India among others. Those were the times when the ideals of Socialism and revolutionary transformation had caught the imagination of the sensitive and humanist intelligentsia. Vaptsarov was one of them and yet stood out in some respects. He stood out in this galaxy of revolutionary intellectuals perhaps because he was himself a worker and experienced the meaning of being a proletarian at first hand.

It's okay if you want to post political stuff, I only wrote that because I thought considering the demographics of this site that the thread might end up with a lot of poetry like that and I wanted other people not to feel alienated

Dulce et Decorum Est:

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.