all people know what are the coordinates that I live in
and on what full stops my initials are leaning on
I write my Unique Master Citizen Number on the payment slip
when I return what was taken from me
And in my health insurance I reveal it
when with my consent they extract blood from my words
so they could see whether my leukocytes are all there
I keep it in the bank as well
in front of the eyes of the loan sharks
so they could see that I have nothing but that number
The postman stops at number 47
and returns the wandered words
in the mail box of the forgetting.
My friend visits me once a month
to read how many light bulbs
were producing light in vain last night
My telephone number is publicly posted
on the web page that gives me salary.
My date birth is printed on my fingers
and writes down all by itself in the empty spaces
of the electronic bureaucracy
The traffic officer knows exactly
when I am about to pass on the main street when I am commuting to work
and he always stops me
to tell me that
I enter the road curves with high speed and recklessly
and that I am excellent in moving on coordinates
and if it wasn’t for that – I wouldn’t survive
and then I recall that it is my hand
that has drawn all of the pedestrian lines
all of the triangles with exclamation marks
and all of the Stop signs in front of the main streets’ entrances
and I go on… on the same coordinates
in foreign systems, with my rules, but I survive
because my life lives in the dream without coordinates
in which I am continuously being born
all over again
Poems are translated from Macedonian to English language by the author