the heavenly heights of the stuffy morning collapse
profusely in the room, making a mess, turbidity
and indefiniteness, all the vortices of the vortices of the grey,
like the delirium, the suspense, the affliction:
no longer lili and i have a god, no prayer books
before the flames, the candles that dance to
the rhythm put together by worn-out
word harmonies uttered with snoring of the red lips
over the ashes of remembrance, the mirrors mirror
blurry vales, vales planted by almost forgotten
tasted sequences, the tall balcony doors
are only temptations overgrown by dandelions
and inhabited by flocks of dumb doves,
temptations ruled by a fear,
the fear of taking a step,
as if in front of a door on the Other Side
Translated by: Elida Bahtijaroska
EN 
MK