ESSAY: GOLGOTHA, MOTHER TONGUE, A TREE, I WRITE THE LAST VERSES, FIFTH REPORT: FINALLY, WE DISAPPEAR

ESSAY: GOLGOTHA

the angel, watching her from his perspective – golgotha melts in the text. the hammers, the nails, the ropes and the cross become tiny sand grains that get ablaze in the sun. that heat is unbearable, and to the crucified jesus, who is a sand grain himself, it opens one more wound, invisible to the other grains. it fills up with water. with deep and blue water. from the sky a huge sponge descends and sucks the water up together with the sand grains.
christ is risen!
one cannot claim the angel played no role there.

Translated by: Dragi Mihajlovski and Zoran Ancevski

 

 

MOTHER TONGUE

You too sucked
Mother’s milk
From the mother tongue.

Didn’t you? From the tongue
Which is milked
In a golden pot
And brought
To the table.

Dear Writer (young?)
While you suck

The tongue only perishes
on the battlefield
For you. Night and day.

Day and night.

Translated by Zoran Ancevski

 

 

A TREE

To go into this tree
through its sharp bark furrows
and like sap through its veins
flow upwards to the buds
that will burst open with the spring

It has been a long winter

Up there I will be a man no more, but a breath
listening to the universe
orchestrating the stars
measuring the pulse between the cold and the silent
fluttering with the rumbling flow of my blood
with the rhythm of my heartbeat
since I am inside it

I am the sap in the tree.
I am a tree!

Translated by Daniela Spiroska

 

 

I WRITE THE LAST VERSES

I write the last verses of my life.
From where do I look upon my life?
For instance, from the wax museums.
Is there life in them?
Something flutters like wings in the air
like curtains in a light breeze.
Is there air between the wax figures?
Is there something resembling my life?
Is someone writing the last verses?
(Do last verses exist? Do verses exist
at all?) I write the last ones.
What have I seen, what have I known (if they exist) in them?
I am a mute man. This is a mute land. This is a
mute land, I am a mute man… I am
mute… mute… mmm. Man.

Translated by Gorjan Kostovski

 

 

FIFTH REPORT: FINALLY, WE DISAPPEAR

Finally, we disappear
We cross a bridge
its arch lost behind us
Goodbye to our dark homes
with damp cellars
with chained moments of calm
We will perish now
On the great globe
only a big black hole will remain
leading directly
to Inferno
In the circle of old historians
the maps of my land
burn in their hands
dissolving into specs of soot
to be blown by the wind
God knows where
Another will inherit
our dark homes

Report of the lynx:

We are gone.
Others are heirs.

Translated by Gorjan Kostovski

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