A Poem Of Ohrid

It is not strange that the heavens burn
when the spirit of the sun appears over Kaneo.
A sacred flame leaps to the heavens’ great circle
when the sun weds the waters. In the air
rays spark, and set above the lake. The fishermen
are here, have caught the glitter in their nets.
From the oak-tree’s branches falls a sacred fire.
They quaff wine from a beaker rimmed with pearls,
sing songs as at a child’s christening.
It’s said you shouldn’t take a sword into a church
for the church itself defends from shades and evil spirits
So no flying fish will ever gouge your eyes.
Men’s voices ring across the lake.
I ask them: Pass the cup my way, for I would drink
from that beaker of wine with its pearled brim;
that I might see the signs of time’s passing
and might begin to dream white dreams.
In my mind I’ve tied knots seven to nine for strength
in life and even more so in the face of death.