Translated by: Zoran Ančevski
You will easily know my blue bird:
it does not peck at bark or the fruits of trees,
nor perch on rocks, nor lurk by carrion and bones –
my bird never descends from heaven.
My bird christens celestial barbarians,
turns light into writing by which
uncertainty, bone-white, dagger-cold
rampages through us…
Only a word could have climbed
so high, to the very stars,
my blue bird,
its beak – sounds, its wings – verbs.