KOSTA-KOCO RACIN
1909-1943

One of the founders of the new Macedonian poetry and an active member of the Marxist and Revolutionary Activity in Yugoslavia. His collection of poems White Dawns, the first book of poetry in pre-war Yugoslavia, appeared in 1938 under much unfavourable circumstances. Racin died tragically as a partisan in 1943. His poetry, with its folk basis, expresses the most vital social and spiritual experiences of the Macedonian people during their difficult years of deprivation of national rights in particular and oppression of individual human rights in general. The poetry books The Lyrics, The Gospel Of Itar Pejo; the novels The Village Behind The Seven Ashes, The Sleep Walker, The Stubborn Heads; and the story collection The Clans And the People are his note-worthy contributions.

ELEGIES FOR YOU

I

Yesterday I set out, walked
through yon green wood
beneath the tall branches
on yon shadow carpet broad.

I walked, my head stunned,
drooping, dead, listless;
I walked, a load on my heart
and a black stone in my breast.

The greenwood of the heroes!
Cool water of the heroes!
Birds sing while you weep,
the sun shines as you darken.

What if you hide the bones
of brave young heroes
lying there beneath you
in your dark groves,
why conceal their songs?
Why do the trees
and the branches of the trees
and the leaves on the branches
whisper so secretly, so sadly?

II

Beastly, beastly is the labourer's life,
walled up in darkness
we are pressed down into beastliness
in this fair world.

Who broke our white wings,
wings of white doves?
who fouled the clear springs,
springs of pure souls?

And who shut, who shut
man off from man with walls?
And who made, who made
man slave to man?

Man from man
to suffer
and crawl
and flee
from cradle to grave!

III

Pour, plunder,
sweat and labour and bare your flesh;
close your vain mouth
lest it speaks of its pain.

Gouge out those black eyes,
let them not look;
break those manly arms,
wound the burning heart.

Put out the lights!
Let there be dark-black stone!

There is, there is still in the dark
something alive to shine out
there is the soul's pain,
there are wounded souls.

The pain aches, the pain burns,
the pain smarts, the soul afflicted.
But when the pain shines out -
'ware, beware, 'ware of its curse!

TO HAVE A SHOP IN STRUGA

It has burnt out - desire has burnt out,
burnt out and gone to ashes!
Only do not rouse the grief
of good old master-craftsmen!

Heavy times are come
and heavier ways,
men are dying daily
their souls are gathered in.

Sing not the song of suffering -
leaves drip in the woods,
waters flow, breaking their banks
and dragging off young aspens.

The markets are dying,
shops abandoned -
all has fallen, crashed;
the golden craft is rusting.