BLAGICA STANOESKA

 

 

Seagulls

 

Every morning, they wait,

at the harbor,

white, proud, winged.

They greet with respect,

for the crumbs of bread.

They circle around the ship,

indicating,

that they travel too

with it through life.

With joy they flutter,

their wings,

while the ship moves,

towards Europe.

Snowflakes in winter,

whiten them,

sun in summer,

bronzes them,

rain erases,

the traces from them,

the air gives them blood,

directly into their wings,

they flaunt on the deck.

Time passes,

I grow old,

they rejuvenate,

crying loudly through the wind.

They hide in the flock,

press themselves,

into my memory

none of them,

will remain on the ship

for a lifetime.

 

Labyrinth

 

I walk up-endless,

I walk down-abyss,

I walk left-dead end,

I walk right-no way.

Nowhere they are,

the threads of Ariadne,

nor the golden calf.

I know that the Centaur

will create a boomerang,

for my arrow,

so that I don't succeed,

to find the exit.

And this walking

through the darkness,

through hidden truths,

is a cramp in a spasm,

on my fingers,

among which you are,

drying like a flower.

 

BLAGICA STANOESKA

 

BLAGICA STANOESKA, 73 years old, retired. Writes poetry and prose. Presented in literary collections in Northern Macedonia, Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bulgaria and Russia. Address: st. Rila Congress no.97, Skopje, Northern Macedonia