Breezes with silver linings
brush this large land’s ember soil.
He stands proud like before his kingdom,
two millennia ago.
Wood plastered by the ghosts of history
Gold coated leaves like his king’s crowns…
Crows with empty eyes nest themselves
between his crown, like the Turks.
Suleiman perfected his sword
against the pine’s firm figure.
This tree knows the harsh winter best
than all of the land’s nation.
A shelter for the many outlaws,
the mountains are their battlefields.
The names of bloody uprisers
whispered at night, as his leaves chime:
Karpoš, Goce and Karev,
many tears shed by the branches.
After this country’s freedom
he can finally sleep now.
The final pine cones leave him,
filled with the bloodstains from
Macedonia’s troubled times.
