I got rid of the holiday days with dry shaving.
Someone who doesn’t listen to the spring rain
looks at me from the mirror
The long beard of the rain is soaking in the ground.
It will tingle the Earth crust soon –
a young, green beard over the old ground.
The imaginary loops tied on the foreheads
we will untie in prayer. Toward the Calvary
we walk scarred by the lash under the skin
But what kind of righteous ones we will be
if we leave the pebble of the repentance
on the weight for our salvation only?
What kind of beam balance is the one that
we have never succeed to unglue from the history,
and our future is constantly hanging without tab?
And if the wrong end of the razor, at the end,
shows us the white worms of the defeat again,
from which country our rain will grow again?
I got rid of the holiday days with dry shaving
and I know – on the smooth face of the mirror
the beard of the time will never grow.
English Translation by Daniela Andonovska-Trajkovska