Selected and translated by: Elizabeta Bakovska
there is nothing to tell
nothing to prove
what was indeed was
so one should not seek
any meanings any games
in her or in us
or an intention to show
a new state of spirit
in images of love extasy
it was simply us
while she was with us
with a passion for some sorrow
in her eyes a distant star
much later much too late
we realised her death
as a martter of fact her
slow dying
as a yellow leaf on a dry bough
extinguishing in the air
before they fall togther
the leaf and the dry bough
in abysses in silence
with the wind of a long autumn
there are no
any meanings any games
there is nothing yet
to discover
to interpret
to rethink
what was indeed was
one should seek no more poetry
no sources
no creative challenges
it simply happened
what happened with her
what happened with us
and then the war an death
and then the game
drew us so much
that we completely forgot
the beginning
our end
rest assured
we made love
because she knew
none of us
in her sickness or her passion
she recognised herself