A Poem Of Ohrid

I’ve dined with God in heaven on high,
I’ve seen the age of storm and rain.
In my trunk there is the old blood and power
of a liberated slave. A magic sword.
When I draw it from its scabbard in the moonlight,
devils hide. People awaken.
When I see gold shining waves upon the lake
I gain the gift of sensing weather change.
My spirit is in that green tree of life,
dying and coming to life each spring,
wedding goddesses of love each day.
My heritage lies in circles entwined:
if you cut a tendon, you’ve killed a father,
if you pluck a leaf, you’ve slain a child.
Listen, in the wind its crown is a harp;
at sunset it is burning blood, a flame of fire.
The souls of the dead feed this sacred tree
and the demons among my people go in fear of it.