ղľáԾ
SOMEONE
You place your hands on the single threshold of this winter night
Look, at this one, too, who withdraws into her gale
like a wall, a vineyard of breasts hard as wood. Wood in the shape
of a tree in a wheel of shades.
The seal symbolises:
how a thing is almost insignificant.
So let us summon
ourselves by fire and water.
The sleepers are related by blood only in sleep.
Until the dream is something like decay.
Yet someone has founded
a real threshold this winter night through the existence of a word.
GIFT
Sleep-head: you closed your eyelids from a great
distance into the shape of a bird.
From the will of detail they have stuck to your
hidden nests overturned upon each other.
Through wings
they measure the silence of our dark sailing in the museum
of night when
the jug of all shades is smashed so that from the depths of the
reflection of fire
there could be a fundamental river bank.
Only to being are we closest and
so once - from the moment of the death of one of us - we’ll
be ever more distant from one another.
Only now
you sleep beside me: you have your eyelids closed
to the shape of birds
from a great distance.
ELEMENT
Flakes make their devotions to the earth.
Shallow, already-
frozen snow.
Little knots of twinkling creaking
brightness.
This is a plain of fields – for untiring thorns
for the eyes.
The heavy eyelids of the furrows crack.
Does the cold stare
up as far as the darkening climate of the heavens?
And it’s nightfall;
unmoving, only multi-inner-branching air.
Clouds, anciently-grey
dulling clouds.
Winged birds can never come
to rest on you.
Now a headlong uncontradicted
mountain.
Oval-sketched by trunks of trees.
The pipes of a solidly spaced
organ.
In crowns of trees without boles the cross-roads of a windstorm
is unknowingly marked.
At the edge of forest base only the protruding
extremities of its wooden ancestors.
Do not disturb
the sleep of decay!
The eye-to-eye of a solitary rock renouncing its
inner-parched dream.
Yet in each place it is
skull-like.
The mouth the not-mouth of a sand clock?
All the while
substituting the burgeoning shade of death?
At this moment in the frost
on its knees it watches over the almost finger-nailed mist.
As if it wanted
to conceal the old known places in my soul.
And through them
I find once more a spring unfrozen even
in winter.
A cold unearthed candle glitters there.
It cleanses
nakedness, it cleanses itself in nakedness!
And what does it mirror?
While
you still have time to turn your head to the night: the self-cathedral
of stars.
Is there only a single meaning in a human being?
Oh,
to see the cosmos in the moment?
Translated by Viera and James Sutherland-Smith
Éհ
Face to face to any death we feel that being is a
secret.
Yes, but so it says that only for one’s own
death everyone must live up to it.
If we knew it,
to live wouldn’t make sense.
Because it wouldn’t
be the unsolvable, unreachable, unexceedable goal
for us anymore.
But even so it won’t last
incessantly!
Still, on our ultimate human threshold,
we will be forced to it by death.
And face to face
will remain only the Unspeakable; Arrhéton.
PROPHECY
In my sleep Iheard the bells tolling.
When I
awakened Isuddenly realised it couldn’t be that
their voice could reach my place.
Lights were
visible only as the cheekbones of the skeleton of
night.
It is, though, anatural prophecy of the
heart of darkness through the mill of time.
Maybe,
somebody is dying somewhere right now, , somebody I
knew, and, again, somebody is being born somewhere,
someone whom Iwill never know.
But why did they
call me from my sleep?
Because there is nothing
attesting that Iam not in alabyrinth right now
and that is presence to everyone.
It is impossible
to enter it and leave it at the same time.
What if
we were not supposed to know why we should have
been born?
It is for us to understand that we yet
have to die!
Even though, it is all surrounded by
the promise of God’s Secret.
STEWARD
Crushed ring of the heaven’s shore.
The air has got
thicker visibly.
Gaping splendour is rooting lithely
into the gloom above the ground.
In this way
the gigantic bird, recignisable only by the rim of its
wings, lands again.
And those who get aglimpse of it,
start to dream.
Ripped out, scattered nest
of true whiteness.
Its heat is cooling off bonelessly,
multiwavely and kissingly into flowing seed-dotted
sap during its flight.
And falling, self-sealing
flakes cleanly fill in that invisible, empty apple.
Shallow to itself, and yet deep and satiated
enough – for every one and every thing , as well as
for the whole world.
That is for everything that
lasts for acertain time but one day sinks into the
pond of not being.
Is it chilly steward himself
unaudibly and long clinking for now?
Yes.
Not
only as aboy; but even now – as avery grown man
– Iwait with amazement for that unicoloured,
all-embracing rainbow.
After my death, there will
be no first snow for me.
Translated bySaskia Kovalčíková
