THE HORSE BALLAD
My dead horse
smells of basil
I pull it like a boat
The trees are sweating
The wind from the pastures
brings a conversation of a group of people
The wind crosses itself
Each herb became white chalk
The children lost their play
and hidden behind the walls like crescents
they bite their nails
suck their little fingers
Waiting for my horse’s clatter
The house on the hill curses me
The mountain is a cloud
Oh Water
sing a lament
for my big horse
for my rest.
From Selection of Poems. Poetry I, Nasha kniga, Skopje, 1986