There the hungry wolf
with his teeth
has ripped out the hot entrails.
There the fugitive convict
stone by stone
has dug his grave.
There the naked dead
on a table of their bones
have chopped up the moon.
There the rutting stags,
their antlers entangled,
have turned into skeletons.
There on hard arid ground
sorcerers have woven
a wedding feast banner from their veins.
The groom is the wind,
the bride is the mist.
Amazingly in their cradle
(a handful of earth and hope)
a nameless flower opens.
Let's go and name it:
let it be called Dream.
your poems have a curt imagery, a brusque beauty.Do create more verses
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Slavko Janevski has, unfortunately, passed away six years ago. Therefore, he cannot write more of those verses. He's one of hte mst famous Macedonian poets, and novelists.