Translated from Macedonian: Elizabeta Bakovska
TO MESHA, INSTEAD OF A LETTER
we advise each other with our eyes, you say.
and I think that we speak with out souls –
it’s somehow the same, my brother on another
and third continent, because we know
how the other one breathes, even when
we don’t write to each other for months
(even when I don’t write to you for months)
I don’t send you my new poems,
I don’t write to you what I hear
while I sleep while I read.
I don’t tell you if and how much I drink
(often abundantly, as a south american
rain running down my throat,
an amazon of tides and floods)
I don’t tell you how the walls around me
tremble, but I sometimes write down
a poem: so that it comes handy in the long
dawns, a bit before sunrise
to put me asleep, to wake you up
you send me your music
such unpretentious lists
packed with melancholy that no
sunlight can paint
and now I think how many pairs of ears
can endure it before they start
to burst like rich chinese fireworks
we advise each other with our eyes, you say
why would be need ears, I think.
we understand each other with our souls, silently, I know
you know it too, my brother, I know that you do.