Kosta Solev (1908-1943) is one of the most important Macedonian poets. As a socialist activist, he dedicated his verses to the people. He published his collection “White Dawns” under the pseudonyme K.Racin. Persecuted by his political opponents, his life ended tragically at the age of 34.
Racin’s story proves the power of words and the danger of telling the truth. As Emily Dickinson said, “Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —”

The Tobacco Gatherers

On cold scales with bronze they weigh it-
but can they gauge its weight-
our tobacco, our troubles,
our salty sweat!

From the dark dim dawns of summer mornings
up to the godless time of winter evenings
greedily it drinks of our sorrow,
our sweat, our blood and our strength.
The yellow-gold makes faces pale
and brings a yellow guest into out breast.

On dew-laden mornings in the first dawn
bowed low in the fields of the place where we were born
listlessly we gather it in.
Pick leaf by leaf
string leaf by leaf
turn leaf by leaf over and press down,
line leaf by leaf gently, sadly
on the long string of beads of sweat
hope with an oath and green fury
with hard stares from cloudy eyes
at the soft leaves all yellow gold
a bitter tale of a life accursed
string on so, soundlessly but clear.
Don’t you know this ?

The day is come for the weighing-up.
There is no gauge meet, it burrows in the breast
without ceasing, without finding its level
not grief but an oath, and in the clouded eyes
unsummoned rises the tempest.

The scales bear golden leaves
while in the breast rage furious waves
of golden grief, of golden tobacco
of the golden sweat of our hands.

Lenka

Since Lenka left
a blouse of fine linen
unfinished on her loom
to go to her clogs to sort
tobacco in the factory,
her face has changed,
her eyebrows fallen,
her lips tight drawn.

Lenka was not born
for that accursed
tobacco!
Tobacco-gilded poison
for her breast-pink
garlands.

The first year passed
a load lay on her heart;
the second year went by
sickness tore her breast.
The third year the earth
covered Lenka’s body.

At night when the moon
wraps her grave in silk,
the breeze above her
sadly warfs sorrow:
“Why was it left
unwoven that blouse?
The blouse was for your dowry …”

Days

Like necklaces about the throat
strings of sold stones
so have the days lain down
on our shoulders and weigh heavy.

Days are they – days
the hardships of hired labourers!

Rise in the morning early
return in the evening late,
in the morning take with you joy
in the evening bring bask grief –
a plague in it, may it be
damned, this life of a dog!

Be born a man – become a bondsman
be born a man – and die a beast,
beastlike, toil your whole life long
for others, on others’ holdings.

White Dawns
For the white palacet of others
dig your own blask graves!

For yourselves nought but gard labour
for yourselves nought but trouble –
string a necklace of days
string forged iron rings,
string the chain of iron bound around your throat!

Elegies for You

I

Yesterday I set out, walked

through yon green wood

beneath the tall branches

on yon shadow carpet broad.

I walked, my head stunned,

drooping, dead, listless;

I walked, a load on my heart

and a black stone in my breast.

The greenwood of the heroes!

Cool water of the heroes!

Birds sing while you weep,

the sun shines as you darken.

What if you hide the bones

of brave young heroes

lying there beneath you

in your dark groves,

why conceal their songs?

Why do the trees

and the branches of the trees

and the leaves on the branches

whisper so secretly, so sadly?

II

Beastly, beastly is the labourer’s life,

walled up in darkness

we are pressed down into beastliness

in this fair world.

Who broke our white wings,

wings of white doves?

who fouled the clear springs,

springs of pure souls?

And who shut, who shut

man off from man with walls?

And who made, who made

man slave to man?

Man from man

to suffer

and crawl

and flee

from cradle to grave!

III

Pour, plunder,

sweat and labour and bare your flesh;

close your vain mouth

lest it speaks of its pain.

Gouge out those black eyes,

let them not look;

break those manly arms,

wound the burning heart.

Put out the lights!

Let there be dark-black stone!

There is, there is still in the dark

something alive to shine out

there is the soul’s pain,

there are wounded souls.

The pain aches, the pain burns,

the pain smarts, the soul afflicted.

But when the pain shines out –

‘ware, beware, ‘ware of its curse!