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Skopje, Macedonia

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I am a fruit
of the mind and pollen's dust,
created for endless walking
trough the submarine boulevards.
According to the ancient stories
I should find my home
in somebody's eyes,
in the eyes of a Blindman.
To study the core
of his tear
in all of its depth
until the sign appears,
until he starts seeing
and he begins to shed tears
in my home
in my Ocean
close to my relatives,
the Whales.

I am a fruit
of the mind and pollen's dust,
created for endless walking
through the submarine boulevards.
But my legs are still dusty,
dry and cracked
and my steps are gone with the wind.






Like a self-sufficient being
unlike human,
leaning at the corner of the sky,
on the green infinity
the Sun takes
acacias blooms virginity.
The Sun drinks their earthy juice
and spits me with it
out of this dry world,
and like a new created life
conceives me under the water,
in the space's blue seas.

Like a song,
the Master reminds you,
where your roots are from
or, perhaps where should
you fix your umbilical cord.
Pain sprigs out of the depth
and appears on the face,
the Earth cracks
foaming and waving your eyes.
A strange urge
makes the Earth vomit
but instead of lava,
song comes out of its mouth.
A woman scared to death,
squeezes her teeth,
but she cannot resist
she starts singing .
Seeds are sprouting,
spreading their arteries, veins
in their Mother, deep into the soil.
Restless bowels are heating,
the heart waits impatiently
to pump up the hope and its essence.
In the same time
the song is heard.

She screams but she cannot resist
out of the mouth, red lava.
Nothing resists anymore,
the old dry soil cracks.
It opens up in all its essence
like a head of a newborn child, ready
to sing its first
Yellow-red, melted
mother's depth,
washes up her newborn children
splashing them with
sea lullaby,
as a defense against the Master of the Earth
she praises the life,
the birth of yet another
The Birth of the Whale.

Everywhere in the universe
Whale's song is heard.




Do not look for your home in my face.
It is somewhere higher, deeper
in the blue seas
full of stars and shoals of whales.
There, my soul speaks for itself
without opening the mouth.





I feel
my eyelashes are hanging down
like icicles in March,
and the Arctic and the Antarctic
are hiding under them.
For more
than million years
my herds of whales
are standing captured in them,
unable to hold
the world on their shoulders.

Nobody is scared
of the unknown

Everyone is dragging
your previous lives
wishing you a good day
by drinking a glass of your soul,
tearing up your heart
as if
every day
lava is overflowing,
as if
every day
children with two hearts are born.
... Leave my soul
forget it at the whales’ graveyard
somewhere up at the crater of

Gray ornament of Bratislava



I left all this gray
even for a while
because I was hoping
rainbow was in my mind,
which is up in the sky
not in the city down
where the histories are crushed,
moments full with pride
and things to put behind.

But the hope becomes gray
like this city’s facades,
on time trams and buses,
precise map of city
in which I was one
I hated one, loved one
because constantly I was one.

How to runaway from this gray and one
is it possible to not be gray
when you are one
when you are in an unknown town.?
Is it possible for gray to shake the colours
to give meaning to the days?
Maybe if gray is an ornament
in someone’s hair
of someone’s couple of hours, soul and face.

In the morning next day
everything was the same