1.
In English,
I paint your words
with meaning.
Language is our home –
with clever conclusions you clean
the millennium garbage
from our gates –
oil crises,
politicians’ promises,
civil wars.
High rises the smoke
of the warm fireplace
lit by the arguments
that are just creative foreplays
to our making love.
August is the cruelest month…
2.
In Macedonian,
I giggle at the rude
obscenities
you’ve learnt with someone else.
You count to ten –
one slim birch,
two blue mountains,
three heavy clouds,
four strong horses,
five cold springs.
And hungry as I am
I can’t get enough of you.
3.
In Dutch,
in the old Bitola way
I show off.
Twee voor de toren
let’s hit the height,
let’s swim out
of the flat landscape line.
Through the bubbling of voices,
I hear the meanings
instead of words.
4.
Do you remember me
your hand asks me.
Your eyes are a dry desert sky.
On my chest I have a hole,
when it rains
my heart is wet.
I comfort you
with muscle contractions
one small,
two strong,
one small.
Save our souls
from this ship that endlessly sinks.
We keep quiet,
for we are bad translators
of our love.