A Little Church At The End Of The World Poem by Borce Panov

When your word will out-weight the earthiness-
moment will become
an axis of the day and night
around which the time will not be
just in the vicinity to the sun,
or distant to the stars,
and the letter that you will get from me
will not be just a dream,
but the ray of your being sewn in me-
squeeze death with your pupil,
wake up from eternity once again
and tell
release of the angel,
one of two voices
with whom you live in one throat-
the angel who was born with you
in the night behind three dots of prophecy
behind which stood not a single star
but my imagination of the light only
in the morning
when I was stringing
your red and white blood cells,
like notes, in silence,
in the little church at the end of the world.