To the respected and dear Ante Popovski
What if we have something to say, yet we keep silent.
Does that mean we have nobody to talk to and nothing to say?
Well, at least, to ourselves and before ourselves something to convey,
yet we mustn’t, and God forbid we start nattering away.
Look, there are the stone, the tree, the eaves, the room, the home, the dale.
Go and talk to the nettle, the elderberry, the dog rose, the tansy,
and maybe some word would return to you by itself, bouncing off
against the quartz, the granite, the marble, the adobe, the limestone.
What if you wish even the birds to talk and utter your language?
They will continue to be silent or they will sing only when you sing or are silent.
You know it not, nor do you recognise their language, or their iconic stubbornness,
to fly against the wind and to return only where they once were.
They seem to fly up and aim towards the sky, then down towards the fall and the mud,
soaring up and down, along some fictional course and contour line of their own making
which cannot be replicated, immortalised and forever transformed into a pathway or a highway
so that other kings, tsars, vassals, lords and servants may tread upon it.
And what if you don’t like and ignore other words and people?
They will still exist, surrounded by other plants and herbs, wooden poles and mortars,
stalk and stock from which neither a root nor stem shall bloom,
so that forever there may reign a thicker, deeper and scarier gloom!
EN 
MK