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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 103-104 | volume  | December, 2015



                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 103-104December, 2015


Translated by: Elizabeta Bakovska

p. 1
Tihomir Jančovski

It’s Not Up to Me
Winter Morning
I Don’t Feel Like Talking
Beauty Will Save the World
What Can We Do?



    In these times of e-mails
    I’ve written you a letter. I found it
    couple of days ago. I’d written it
    and I forgot about it. The letter was
    never sent, and yet I expected
    an answer. In these times when
    just like everybody,
    I only check my e-mails,
    some time ago, I wrote a letter.
    It’s not a suicide note,
    nor a diary confession, it’s not a love letter.
    It’s a conversation with my destiny, with myself,
    a message to contemplation, to the future,
    it’s unclear, overloaded and unreadable
    to anybody else. I can’t write well
    about important things.
    I’ve already forgotten what I wrote in it.
    I’d crumbled it, but I didn’t throw it away, I
    straightened it again and put it somewhere, so
    it surprises me again on some future day, when
    I rumble around my drawers and shelves.
    Maybe then I will find out that my wishes
    for peace, joy and meaning expressed there
    have already come true, or that in time
    they’ve become meaningless. I remember
    my handwriting, but not the words. The letters
    are readable and elongated. There are moods
    when one throws out old things, and the opposite
    when I’m sorry to throw them. They pile up
    in the cellars, attics and in my subconsciousness.
    There the past is being reexamined.

"Blesok" editions 01-93 are also available at CEEOL web site.

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