The Old Wooden Box Poem by Aleksandar Sasha Trajkovski

Memories with desires unfulfilled and painful,
locked in the old wooden box,
and engraved with words on paper,
for mercy ask me very shyly,
every time I open it…
In those tons of texts obsolete,
lay many hopes empty,
and reading them cautiously,
always I am embodying in them,
like I read psalms from Holy book,
or like I open,
an eternally closed hiding place of wisdom of life.
Most frequently desires unrealized and tumbled,
Are written between empty lines,
of white paper…
And those poor leaves of paper,
long years were rippled,
from waves of torrent of tears,
and I really do not have enough wisdom,
to figure out how much are
sad, empty and unimportant.
And again starts that hope,
which always dies last,
I am even more convinced
that your flame of passions
still burns,
burns so strong that no word
can resolve it.
And in the end,
again remain the same empty lines,
lost on the white paper…
and strongly I console myself that those writings,
are illusion imprinted on papers,
will disappear if I decide not to open again,
the box old and wooden
and leave it forever closed.