1.
Embroideress tell me how to give birth
to a song of pure Macedonian worth,
a song from a heart of turbulent thought
of words tossed at midnight and finally caught.
Two cherished threads unpick
from the depth of your heart
and weave them into fulfilling their part:
A black one to mourn of fearful sorrow unsaid
A red one to tell of yearning, longing and dread.
Then forming them into a cloth even and long
weave pain and longing into the song
as I am making from this flaxen band
an embroidered sleeve for a bride's white hand.
And a fate woven by age unbound
will be formed from two threads:
one harmonious sound.
From one a restless darkness is to be born
and the other will give birth to a bloody dawn.
2.
Embroideress raise your lowered head
and look towards a horizon
of burning afternoon red
for there giving lustre
to the sky's blue pallor
appears your handiwork in
all its magnificent colour.
But no evening sunset is there for your woe
Your weary eye of a trembling doe
For the black and red you are compelled to bind
Glows high above in colours that blind.
And are you not afraid
that the brilliance revealed
will eclipse all other memories
you may have concealed
But strict and divine,
your youth is now fading
And time is bringing days
that curses are made in.
My most treasured memory is but a dead flower
Compared to your task and your incredible power
For you hunted the sound of a song
And told with it your story
And sung your own fate.
