Translated by: Zoran Ančevski
No one will return
to the sea after my death
and that makes me happy
I’ll be able to uproot shadows
and even wrinkles, make younger
the universe engendered in a photograph
to see you in a cracked mirror
and call you Wind In the Burning Hair
while all scratched you cry for the womb
it is a nice trade: to remember yourself
for which you don’t need a slice of the moon
you, to be noise, me silence, and vice versa