PETRE BAKEVSKI
b. 1947

Born in Kavadarci, Macedonia. He worked as a journalist, theatre critic and editor. At the present, he is Director and Editor-in-Chief of the Publishing House Detska Radost, at NIP Nova Makedonija in Skopje.

THE SECRET DOORS TO SILENCE

In Troy -
The secret doors to silence open,

He, the Great One, who sets ablaze
with heavenly light
the shadows of the ruins,
Who walks with red fire through the lucent
silence
that clings to the dry face
of the stone
With a white star on his palm, he holds
the day
drawn out
from the silken mantle
of the dawn

He, the Great One, silently stares at his
unseen star,

And as the silence revives the deaf
chime
of time,
He unites time -

And gives it meaning once more: to come awake,
To come awake - in the campaigns!

Will he reach the dead voices
of the vanished
warriors,
In the torn down stones,
The face of silence has been twisted,
The ruined walls in
the invisible
wind,
The sky lies open to the healed wounds
of silence,

He comes from the sunrise,
And down the gilded beams of the morning,
Measures his dream in the silvery whiteness
of Troy,

Where the sword of Achilles is buried,
Where the shadow has harvested
the chill
of loneliness,

Where the stone becalsm the noiseless
roar
of the sea,
And the birds fly,
And the birds fly down the magic paths
of time,

To reach -

The hero's invisible might!

Winds from the sea blow,
Over Troy -
Clouds gather,
As if a black flock of birds pecks at the day,
As if thunders roar in the mountains,
And in a fiery echo cling
to the bronze face
of the Great One,

And he -

Amidst a storm of dark clouds,
Raging winds,
And black rains from the sea's roar,

With naked body,
With naked body,
Braving the lightning,

Runs around the grave of Achilles,
Runs around Achilles,
Runs,
Runs,

Ties time up in circles,

Amidst a storm of dark clouds,
Raging winds,
And black rains from the sea's roar

With naked body - naked in the lightning

He runs,
Runs,
Runs,

Runs the course of his future,
And opens the secret door to silence!

With naked body - naked in the lightning
He, the Great One,
In the awakened time of Troy!

DOWN THE GOLDEN PATHS OF THE BIRDS

One should go down the golden paths
of the birds,

Troy does not change the vanished face
of time
The Great One has roused from the dream of his
thunders
The silence is illumined for new campaigns,
For new campaigns...

The new Achilles is in his golden armour,
He gazes at the sun,
He is in the sun and of the sun,
He is in the burning distance
of the conquests,
Oh, one should go down the golden paths
of the birds,
Down the golden paths of the birds...

And from the dust,
From the awakened sleep of Troy,
From the petrified time of destructions,
From the ashes,
From the silenced cries,
From the doused hearths,

The unheard voice of Hephaestus

The burning fires of the blacksmith
of Olympus,
The doused stars of the starry sky
on the golden shield
of Achilles,

From the dust
From the yellow spears of loneliness,

All is turned towards the Great One,
All is turned towards the Great One,

Oh, he lifts the golden shield,
He lifts Troy on the shield,

Time merges with the shadow of his sword,

In new campaigns,
In new campaigns,
To guard the sleep of the warriors,
To guard the silence on the battlefields,

And to sense,
And to sense -

The pathway to the sun,

Oh, one should go down the golden paths
of the birds!

The Great One sets forth!
The Great One sets forth!

Oh, one comes to Troy but once!

THE WALKING STICK OF BLAZE KONESKI
Titov Veles, November 24, 1988

The poet mounts the platform -
it's pretty high and has a microphone.
He leans on his walking stick -
to fortify the thought, to sharpen
the word!
Behind him, a picture of Racin!
The poet turns to the face of Racin!
two looks - two destinies,
some silence flows between the lines,
unsaid things -
what can the two poets
talk about!
They look just enough to greet each other.
All has been said between them -
like between old friends
the poem spoke for the poets!

The walking stick turns to the hall,
supports the old poet,
and it seems -
the ceremony's over!

But he -
lifts the stick and speaks -
he was the first and his rhymes are the first!

Time still nourishes the poems
The legend should be finished
The dogmatic powers are defeated!

The old poet's walking stick dangles
Points at the hall,
makes some strange circles,
someone's sharp look shoots at somebody's eyes,
perhaps it will hit somebody's conscience!

The walking stick dangles and cautions
Outside it is winter, it snows,
The night slowly passes into oblivion,
The people are leaving the hall,
outside it is winter, it snows,
we leave and go to our solitude,
the night slowly passes into oblivion -
Oh, God, what did the poet say
and where he and his stick disappeared!

Outside it is winter, it snows!
Did our poet say anything at all!