How soft is the cover
Of the chatter of tongues
Of the fine sand
And of the gentle waves
Morning etudes
Seem to be swaying
In Greek, Romanian, Bulgarian
In Russian, Macedonian and Serbian...
And in melodious seaside choruses.
I take up that soft cover
Of the wind
I stick my cheek to the ground
And I feel as though the cheerful pebbles
Make fun of me
With the tongue of anger
And how the rock of passions grows
around of the same dough.
I cover myself and briefly
Create darkness from light.
How cold is the sun
That still sleeps
In the heart of sand grains!
Please,
Do not deny anything from this story
Oh Lord,
Even when you retell it
In your dialect!
EN 
MK