Monday, March 1, 2021







translated & versified from Macedonian into English by the author


He was always something more than me

though he did not always know of himself.

I was your friend, close to you

though you I know weren't one

at least not with me.

Because he has always progressed

where I was not.

He didn't believe in friendship.

He thought and I was like you.

That I will drag you to the bottom with me.

As I didn’t want anybody to be more than me.

The truth is - they are all like you.

They want everything for themselves; for the others it may be nothing left.

But I know your gait was muddy;

living non-sweet.

Beside you was always that selfishness so strict

to darken and even out everything

that ugly but sprawled grandmother Jaga.

So you realized that even though you won, you are the one who always loses!

And then you killed yourself with one female petty-gun!!

Because you realized that you are selfish too.

Like many others.

You will never have uniqueness!

Hence I placed a laurel wreath

on your bloodied, shot forehead

while you were still warm

and laid on your acacia cupboard.

Oneness. Specificity. Eternal quietness.




translated & versified from Macedonian into English by the author


Ms. M. wiped the stone stairs which

are probably 10 centuries old, with palms

which were gently pressing; the rag was tattered

from too long usage, that one bucket

and this time was full of water only,

yet she achieved that extraordinary

effect of purity with one squeeze only

so gentle with the palms of her exhausted

hands – the effect was so noble,

as the swaying of the ash trees above

the orphanages of the still unborn.

Which unborn arise from the influx of

the sinless peace, shaken by the following day-

conceived by all inside of us which honestly is

and will never be something that

is not, nor something that will never

be, but will last with camouflage glow

of its perpetual deception.

Her posture is probably completely haggard,

beneath the worn out robe (which pinky-

green patterns are fully faded) which

is translucent, showing the skeleton of which

we say is dying, though once was living.

Her movements are sharp, dignified,

if she didn't survive the horrors of dictatorship

she would have become lady. So, she believes

in the temple in front of her by which will

soon be swallowed, with intensity of a sickness

which becomes a paradise while futureless.





Which is mine?

Me or the day?


What is a day

without the gray scale

of the morning

while bearing the sun

or the rage

of our solitude

all around the neighborhood?


It itches, it hurts

I know.

What is our presence

without: feeling alive,

the pain, the essence?




IGOR POP TRAJKOV is one of the most productive authors in the region of South-East Europe, not just in North Macedonia. His literary works include all kinds of texts, like theater works, prose, poetry, essays, columns, journalism and reviews. He wrote a lot of theory which he published at the prestigious foreign universities and institutes.

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