The mysteriousness of your tongue
The tongue is never sufficient unto itself...
The hymens of words are bursting
spattering blood - an unlyrical saliva
penetration lubricated in sagacity.
Fragrant lances sink inside
but right inside
the tongue's anagram is
an insatiable game
from my gullet to yours
The more archaic
the more festive
the dialect of love
the hymn of the lips
the red forecourt of the throat
give it to me
spirally
spiritually
ritually
honey-baked
peasant bread, tongue-bread
tongue on the spit, earth rust-red
take it from me
give it to me!
We think up lingual digressions
excursions to pure regions of the world
reciprocal situation plays:
The god of our tongue is dead
(therefore he'is God
now we have every right
reshape him
to change him
between us, so that magnanimously
we're consumed by fire
both in dream
and the reality.
Translated from macedonian: Ewald Osers
Contemporary Macedonian Poetry, London & Boston 1991
