In the quiet lake North Wind rages,
Above us a chilling voice indolently's felt.
Collide with the cold walls of the shore.
In this January without snow
the lake has cought a layer of cold
North wind blows over the scuffed faces
over disillusioned souls.
One lonely boat
over there in the corner hangs on swaying.
From far away, there from the Fortress
The lake reveals sleepy Ohrid with panty of splendors.
Its word pierces the murky cold
The night overnight promotes bitter over us.
Heavy air, waves of late hours
Banks start to boom in the wall.
A wave is repeatedly going along us,
a new sorrow inviting the poets.
Ohrid this January
Sorrowfully soothes us.