It Is Neither Legend Nor Fairy Tale

I do not tell you it is a legend,I do not know if it is a fairy tale,Lake Ohrid turned into a stage,And the moon combed her hair and felt longing.

From the window, like a man lost,I only gazed at a miracle.Dreams of waves, lulled eyes,In the middle of the lake, a miracle...

And I do not know if it was a woman,And I do not know if it was a star.I do not remember if it was a dream,Or a nymph from a forest...

I rub my eyes, she is still there,I hear a voice as if speaking to me.I feel I am not alone, we are two,And the song of our sovereign lake..

And she steps from the waves dripping water,And waves her hand hey..hey ..hey.A girl as beautiful as a young doe,With whispers I cannot translate...

I do not know what language she speaks to me,I know neither her life nor her history.But in my ears it echoes,Like a melody, a fairy singing of love..

And strangely she walks upon the waves,In a shirt torn like the clouds.And she is barefoot, she is an eel,It seems she does not walk, but glides...

And the golden moon throws upon her shoulders,Its golden color that it has.And the stars dance in clusters,It seems to me this nature is going mad..

And the wave sweetly licks the shore,The poplar tree is full of leaves.The music of the breeze finds a path,With songs and the muses' tears and tears..

And the girl hides down beneath the water,And then comes out above the surface again.With the moon's comb she begins to comb her hair,The lake holds its breath, silence reigns...

Oh, this wonder happening tonight,In the night, beauty is bathing in the lake..Saint Naum sat and pondered,The moon hangs like a light in the trees...

I close the window and take the stairs,To a garden right across the way..But I swear to you I am not a madman,I feel my soul is troubled...

And I want to touch the dream with my hand,I want the shirt she is wearing.To take it from her, for it burns her body,And set it on fire laughing...

And let her be like that, without clothes,Like the moon that rises in the night sky.Let her step out into the meadows and hills,Like a beautiful flower blooming on the hills...

And she glides and waves her hand,But not at me, at the other side.Over there I see a bust, a crowned king,It is Lasgush, holding a letter in his hand...

Ah, today I understand through this night,The beautiful art of the poet Lasgush.In his life he had such fortune,He saw beauty in the lake of sweet wine...

Every night drunk on dreams and wonders,That is why he crafted such masterful works!