Borce Panov

Rookie (27.09.1967 / Radovish, Republic of Macedonia)

Letter Of Accomplishment One Night, From A Long Sigh Came Nothingness Into My Breath And Request Of Me, Without A Word, To Paint Him- Without Form, Without Reflection, Without - Poem by Borce Panov

Letter of accomplishment


one night, from a long sigh
came Nothingness into my breath
and request of me, without a word, to paint him-
without form, without reflection, without sound,
without time that remains
to count down to the end-
with eyes of pupils without iris
merged into black hole,
into black swallowing magnet,
he began to turn reverse my bloodstream,
for I to fall and helplessly
to disappear in it...
And I feel that only by my sigh
I can paint him
and I lured his glance
into my voids -
for all what was taken off from me
with unsaturated gluttony
to take away -
all from that insatiable gluttony
to be taken back...
And he lifted me up into dark tornado,
and vortex of voices from the emptiness
like endless, comprehensive spindle
pulled me by my thoughts like by a root threads
and started to root me out of myself,
but then, by the oblivion
to the beginning of everything
inside combat between the root threads and the darkness
all light of my life
from the middle of the tornado I saw
and I looked the Nothingness modestly
and for every phoneme – giving him a word
that everyone is not nobody and nothing,
but someone who like icon
quietly shines in the darkness...
and I was breathing with all the light
of the love in the umbilical cord
with which I was born, My God,
and more and more
I added iris to the pupils
and I brought Nothingness into my letter-
to be changed through the forms of pronunciation,
not to be only unlimited hole-
but to become commas and exclamations
which are whispering lonely and look-
behind every comma, question-
faces: sad, confused, tearful-
eyes from eyes that opens -
eyes frightened, dear, deep,
looks desperate, contrite,
brute, toxic, lost-
faces that list
and like spent lives
from the calendar of the ages
I began to tear away them of me silently,
and my sigh froze like a palm
when I stepped deep
into his non pronunciation
and yet there is only one non pronunciation
from where
the echo of my breath
only from you, my Lord, returns -
through a letter
from whose midst
never death without love
will not take us irreversible,
and into my eyes, white basil
will blossoms because of wormwood of tears
for what we see ahead,
to not be too much
for devastation behind us...

Borce Panov


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, November 29, 2011



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