What holier can a Macedonian poet use
to close the circle of his age
but his palms in which he brings
water to the wounded bird in the yard
and his song which he grows his grandsons
with and their smile in which
he sees the roots of the new age
and the density of our fatherland?
I put traces of three stars into one
then press it in my dreams
and leave. The skies
tremble from the tramping
of my bridled horse
in gallop.