There’s an entrance at Leninova,
in summer
it’s freezing cold,
in winter
smells of noble mould,
the one that grows only in
proper homes basements.
Next to Treska, in Hrom
there’s a little wooden bridge
and the best sunset –
pastoral background
of wrecked cars,
garbage and syringes.
Nobody’s seen a flasher for a long time
uphill to science faculty,
even they grew distant
from nature
and high education.
At Partizanska in June
the linen trees are on ecstasy,
covered with obituaries
about the persecuted smell
of roasted peppers.
At the place of the snack shop
across from the Faculty of Civil Engineering
now there are fountains,
before there were roasted chestnuts
and juices made of syrup and water –
we always took different ones
to share.
Some new kids
rolling by the river,
pretty girls on the asphalt,
at their age
we only jumped rope and played marbles.
I want to take a ride
through the city by bus –
that way you can both move
and remain deep in your thoughts
during the façade slide show.
There is some melancholy when
you move through the crowd
on Makedonija street
listening to Johnny Cash
Oh Death, where is thy sting?,
strolling along it
on 1st of January,
and no living soul around.
The city changes
and you grow old,
you are sad
that you haven’t adjusted
to tupsi-tupsi cafés,
bronze lions
and Baroque bridges,
and that you no longer have the guts
to move out.
Nothing in the city
will be named after you,
for better –
imagine a garbage dump,
or a street leading to nowhere.
Your dead friends
wave at you from the balconies,
that meet you behind the corners,
those still alive
frequent the Internet.
But there is a window
I know you breathe behind,
and see, that comforts me.
No Triumphal Arch
can come close
to your closeness.
That’s why I can easily stand
this Skopje that grows fast,
while “our” city
slowly kicks the bucket.
13 November 2011