A Poem Of Ohrid

The young sun rises. The lake awakens
the light that’s in the soul.
An evil man will find fault even with the sun,
he’ll say, at least: it doesn’t shine at night.
But here people have feared the wedding
of the sun since time exists:
who can survive that heat, that hell
when a myriad suns will be born,
when the water in the lake begins to boil?
I thought of that legend in this town
from where Argonauts once sailed,
a town with icons and museums older than the Louvre
where even the swallows are met with a feast.
In this age a crossroads without signs —
it is folly to play games with suns,
to follow the path of some lunatic
who has never heard of the keys of the lake.
This place is like walking through a fairy tale
from once secret door to another.