Łysohorsky, Óndra: Summer (Liêto Angol nyelven)

Skalisty bereh, porosły jolinoju,

odbivajesie v piênistuj Ostravici.

Dospivaje liêto. Čerez hôle padaje

Obiêdnie soncie v vysoku travu.

Po tvojôm łobi błudit siêť tiniôv,

a nad jim nebo koloru gencijany.

U piênnum šumi fal moja ruka,

niby zabyvšyś, hładit tvojiê jasny kosy.

Zdajetsie, ja łaskaju v liêtniuj žarê

broskvini v sonci pud Vezuvijom.

Zapluščyvšy očy, čuju puvdenne more.

I kryk mevuv nad zatokoju Neapolu.

Mevy kryčat i v beskidśkuj storoniê,

nad biêłopiênnym šumom Ostravici,

nad tišynoju sažałok, lohko obkidanych

berozami, z kotorymi hulaje viêtior.

Mevy kryčat. A ja ščaslivy u Beskidach,

choč nudiatsie tut joły po-nad šachtami.

Ty odozvałaś. Ja čuju movu prodkuv,

Mjahku jak šeptanie puvdennoho mora.

A rocky slope, all overgrown with pine trees

Looks musing down the frothy Ostravitsa.

The summer ripens. Through the crowded branches

The midday sun drifts onto tallgrown grasses.

A net of shadows creeps over your body,

The sky is shining in a gentian blue.

My hand caresses dreamily your rye-ripe

Blond hair, to surging rythms of the wawes.

It feels as though I stroke warm, ripening peaches

In summerheat, on a Vesuvian slope.

I close my eyes. The glowing gulf of Naples.

The heaving billows. Midday. Seagulls’ cries.

Here too, by the Beskides, the cries of seagulls

Hang over the white, foaming Ostravitsa,

Over the quiet ponds, hemmed in by birches,

Light dancers in the movement of the wind.

The seagulls cry. O happiness, in spite of

Tall pine trees glancing anxiously on coalpits.

You speak. I hear the language of our fathers,

Soft as the language of the seas at noon.