Not even nine curtains
can conceal a house
in which there’s a wedding
the glasses clink the walls glow
the soul leaps
between the heal and the skin
and the drunk staggering house
dances among the neighbours
bows to the streets
flies over the trees
sways its heaps along the lanes
and they all follow toasting
to that happy house, that bride!
But the house of the philosopher
is without a curtain and name
no one looks at it
sunk between the shoulders of the spirit
sinks without a sound, he solves riddles
it languishes, he creates worlds
and in the end when he becomes a poor corpse
a whole pile of thoughts falls in the dust
and in the end when dismembered
it kneels before its threshold like an old ugly woman
everyone passes by in a hurry, spitting at it
saying: ah, what an ugly, ugly ruin!
———-
*The title of a Macedonian folk song.