Thursday, June 1, 2023





I was nine years old when I discovered a sacred secret.

I woke up early, before dawn, at the moment when

day and night are equal on God's scales.

In the room stood that meek and tiny figure,

that pillar of mercy and truth.

In one hand she held the threads of the sky,

connected to each side of the house.

In the other, she crushed the grains sprouted from the ground.

Between, she added a handful torn from his thigh,

one from under the sternum and one from the forehead.

Three - I told myself, one for each of the children.

She crossed the air with a powerful swing.

Strong and fast, as if competing

with the arrival of the sun.

As dawn broke, the room lit up empty.

The kneaded bread was left resting on the table.




I built myself a house on a dry hill, among dry trees.

Let it not be a native field, a blooming meadow.

Let it not be “a tree planted by abundant waters,

which brings its fruit in its time, and

whose leaf does not wither” (Holly Bible, Psalm 1:3)

A house in the winds, on a dry hill, among dry trees.

Every night come fortunetellers,

they measure my days again and again

and the judgment and the measure are always the same.

The first one says: I have nothing to give him.

He has emptiness in the fingers.

Where should I insert the thread to sew on it,

the longing with the palm, the moment with eternity?

The second says: I have nothing to give him.

I look at him and see nothing.

He is neither in the day, nor is the night his.

He neither treads on the earth, nor walks in the heavens.

The third is silent, and then as if with a fiery sword

overhead he swings and cuts.

His fingers are empty,

because he hid the silence in them.

He is nowhere, because he sees what is not seen.

He also understands the language of the stars

and on the dust in the fields.

I will give him to carry both a curse and a gift.

He will live and die every day.

He will build a house, but he will not have a house for himself.

He will gather fruit on a dry hill, from dry trunks.

I'll let him have the body of the word,

and in the place of the soul I will put a song.


The Day Temjana Was Born


The day Temjana was born

was an ordinary day.

Bread and fish were being prepared.

Water was put into the barrels of wine.

The men were looking up at the sky

sharpening the scissors.

The children with slingshots were aiming at the clouds.

And Grandpa, crinkled under the ledge

continuously spoke something inaudible,

it seemed as if tying the word in knots under his tongue.

The day Temjana was born

the grapevines were pruned.

The children with slingshots summoned a storm.

The women looked at the black sky

and spat in their bosoms.

Only Grandpa didn't stop talking

and cutting the grapevine shoots.

One word in a knot under the tongue,

three steps forward, one upright

and a strong swing with the blade.

The day throbbed in the rhythm

of pruning and reshaping.

Tack-tack children to the clouds.

Spit-spat women in their bosoms.

Clack-clack in the flesh of the grape vines.

The day throbbed. Pruned and reshaped itself.

At the last tack and spit and clack

Grandpa waved up so hard,

it seemed as if he cut the knot between

the clouds in the sky and the roots of the grapevines.

The word remained floating in the interspace.


In the silence of that ordinary day - Temjana was born.




SILVANA DIMITRIEVSKA is graduated philologist and journalist. She was the coordinator of the literary circle 'Mugri' and the editor of the poetry almanac of the same name. She is represented in the Anthology of recent Macedonian poetry for young people Purpurni izvori by Suzana V. Spasovska, the anthology One Hundred and One Poems, edited by famous Macedonian poetess Svetlana Hristova Jocic, the collection of poetry and short prose by young people from the former Yugoslav territories Manuscript 30. Silvana writes poetry, short prose, essays and haiku verses. She is the author of the anthology Angels with five wings, published as part of Struga evenings of poetry. She appears as a reviewer of several collections of poetry by young authors. She is the winner of the second and third 'Blaze Koneski' prize for a scientific essay. For her first collection of poetry, “You, who came out of a song”, she won the prestige national 'Aco Karamanov' award. For her short story 'Butterfly Skirt' he won the first prize of the contest 'I tell a photo 2021' announced by the Holocaust Fund of the Jews of Macedonia. This year, she won several national and international awards and recognations.


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