The air is deeply breathable. 
The mountain lies wrapped in mist, 
its colours hushed beneath the thick veil. 

A small, almost whispered sign, 
an open gate to a courtyard – 
enough to draw us gently in. 

Everything is fresh: 
the stone path, 
the dewy garden, 
the wet earth. 

My husband plays with small, 
orange, woolen pom-poms 
trembling on a string, 
I wander whether we are truly 
where I think we are. 

And then –
a woman, 
gracefully adorned by life. 

She thanks us for the tidy yarn balls 
and leads us to a stone building 
beside the house. 

A wooden door opens,
a high threshold, 
a room 
where a wide window – the eyes of the world – 
looks out onto the mist. 

The fog follows 
like a long quiet sigh 
and fills the moment 
with mystery. 

As we promised ourselves, 
the woman with the delicate, calm voice and I, 
this is now our moment 
for Leshten. 

She plays soft, jazz music 
and leaves us alone. 

I gaze at the book covers, 
read aloud the familiar poet's words, 
comfortably framed 
and signed by his hand,

and know 
we are exactly where I think we are. 
Where the soul wished us to be. 

The mist, 
the mountains behind it, 
the paintings on the walls, 
the stones around us, 
the faded dandelions in a champagne flutes, 
the musical instruments, 
the photographs – 
everything turns into POETRY. 

Words, 
baptised in silence, 
moist,
with soft, blurred contour 
gently touch the senses. 

A lyrical calm, 
a consoling mystery
dissolve the boundaries of forms, 
silently letting the tenderness 
of the autumn light 
flow through the arteries 
of the body. 

Time slips away. 

A feeling of merging settles in – 
with the mist 
that "hangs its empty sleeves like a coat",
with the 'ladder" 
whispering skyward, 
with the wisdom of stones, 
with the vastness of the paintings...

I "put on the coat 
made to my measure" 
and slowly 
and wordlessly 
return to myself. 

Whole. 
Still. 
At peace. 

As if I could stay here 
for a long while. 

I choose three books. 

The woman returns, 
her delicate, calm voice noticing: 
"Ah, you've chosen Boris."

I tell her 
I keep the Book of Stones like an icon at home, 
and now I'm drawn 
to the Book of  Titles. 
She adds softly, 
"There's also the Book of Silence."

We found this place without plan 
on a rainy day, 
and she says – 
"That's precisely way the door stays open, 
to be found unexpectedly."

Among life's mystical paths, 
I silently agree. 

And I realise 
I am praising what needs no praise. 
It's better to returned to silence –
that almost divine silence 
that connects the poet 
beyond the walls. 

As we leave, I think:
How much grace there is in the simple presence,
How much awareness – in silence. 




Boris Hristova, born in 1945, is one of Bulgaria's most respected contemporary poets and writers, known for his deeply human voice and quiet philosophical presence in Bulgarian literature. His novels, essays, and screenplays gained fully recognition only after the fall of the totalitarian regime on November 10, 1989. 

Since the mid-1990s, the poet has lived far from the noice of the cities, in the mountain village of Leshten in the beautiful Rhodope region. Together with his wife Darina, a painter, he chose a life of privacy and pure creativity. He rarely appears in public, avoids events, and although he has accepted a few literary and academic awards, he has declined state honours, a personal decision Hristo made long before the end of communism. Withdrawal became a central theme of his work: retreat not as escape, but as a moral stance, a way of preserving inner truth.   

Life in Leshten reflects this philosophy. Surrounded by the people closest to him and by the mountain's quiet majesty, Boris Hristov gathers stones from the Rhodope slopes and inscribes them with wisdom. He photographs the beauty around him, carves wooden sculptures from ancient roots, and in the evenings sometime performs improvise concerts on instruments he made himself. These creations, along with his books, Darina's paintings and work by other contemporary artist are housed in the couple's gallery, a beautifully restored barn in their courtyard. 

This year, the poet celebrated his 80th birthday. I don't know how this milestone unfolded for him, but I am deeply grateful that I found my way to the gallery this fall. I had heard that sometimes he greets visitors himself. Whether it was him or his wife I met ultimately did not matter. What stayed with me was the feeling of being welcomed by the space itself, by the stones, the words, the fog and the mountain.   

In a world constantly driven by speed, visibility, and relentless demand for output, Hristov's gallery feels like a sanctuary. It invites listening rather than broadcasting, contemplation rather than urgency. Here, artistic practice is rooted not in algorithms or performance, but in presence, in the slow folding of the inner voice. The lesson I carried away was one of creative sovereignty. Art can grow from solitude. Silence and stillness can be collaborators. And some of the most authentic work happens far from the noice, in a distant corner of the world, in a small room overlooking mist and mountains.  
Gallery Address 
2962 L E S H T E N, Bulgaria
+359 896 645 593