The footsteps lying weary
at the treacherous threshold, 
they hesitate: 
shall they choose death as their darling –
or the raging storm? 
O, 
slaughterers, 
scars, 
river beds! 
A sting loves the milky soul: 
a gentle hand
twists a silver dagger, 
like a medal for earthly rituals
at the red spring
Let a dark shriek rise
always
(Translated into English by Zoran Anč evski)                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    