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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 32 | volume VI | May-June, 2003



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 32May-June, 2003
Essays

Ema

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Ana Dimiškovska - Trajanoska

     A small sequence, engraved beyond erasing on the white marble of consciousness.

     The church of Saint Germain l’ Auxerois, the shiny pearl of the Gothic architecture in the heart of Paris. The big rosette, as a stone flower with thousands of fragile, multicolored petals, the trembling membrane at the border between the two worlds. Outside – a passing spring. Inside, in the quiet semi-darkness, a small white chapel dedicated to Virgin Mary; the statue depicts her in holy elation, with a movement directed behind the veil of the visible… And around her… The entire wall covered with small marble tiles, hundreds of them, covered with messages of gratitude and respect to the Virgin Mother, for the small and big miracles that she had brought to somebody’s life: sudden recoveries, amazing rescues, discoveries of the long lost precious objects…

     One of them, one of the many, simply states
      “Sainte Vierge,
     merci
     pour mon Ema”.
     And a date, from the last century.

     A flood of images, overflowing on top of each other. Ema? A girl with blond locks, smiling, in a silk dress with laces, running to her mother’s arms… Her birth – a long expected joy that Sainte Vierge sent as a sign of her mercy, giving meaning to the silent belief of the nocturnal prayers… Or: Ema. A young, blossoming woman in whose arms life waves as a sea, returning to a lonely soul its long sunk, lost valuables… Or: Ema. A gentle sister, a divine creature sent to return the wanderer to his path, to suffer quietly, silently and long, renewing her force in each smile of his… Or: Ema, a kindred soul, a big soul, mirror of joy… Or: Ema, a life companion, already at the end of her road, only memories remaining in her blue eyes – inextinguishable sparkles of a gone, common youth… Or…
     Who was Ema?
     Whoever she was, she is no more.

     Her name only, on the wall.
     And she was the miracle of somebody’s life.
     A fresco, beneath the skin.

     In the holy space, under the high roof of the church – our bodies,
     Living temples on whose walls there are the carved names of those through whom the world spoke to us.
     Torn away from time.

     Sainte Vierge
     Merci.


    Translated by Elizabeta Bakovska






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