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Laučík, Ivan: Milí priatelia!

Portre of Laučík, Ivan

Milí priatelia! (Slovak)

Človek vo svojom tenkom klobúku
nie je doma pre seba, ale pre niekoho.
Má sa rozrastať? dozrievať? postupovať?

H
ľa, lomoz. Matovaná oceľ. Dohasínajúce zvuky.
Tlak na lesy. Na kosť zodratý stôl.
Rýchlo sa uzatvára leto. Podnebie zaplavuje
spečenýcukor.
Živím sa náhlivými trávami. Jasné dni
sa už blížia od severu, z pravlasti.
Biele stany zimných mesiacov, nebezpečenstvo
lavín.
Teplo zasypaného opä
ť vytvorí v snehu
akú-takú medzeru.
A na stole mám v kameni „telo“
hlavonožca, preťaté vrstvou kremeňa.
Ani zmŕtvychvstanie ho nespojí!
Rozpojení sa vz
ďaľujú.
A kto sa ozve? Kto prežije v sebe?
Včera je rovnako za nami ako celá
minulos
ť.

Previsy žiaria do okien. Sneh sa mieša
so svetlom. (Ó, previsy bez koreňov,
žiarivé kontakty, s čím?)
Túžil som po skle medzi nás,
čo by vnútorným kazom
značilo moju stranu, stanovisko.
Oslepený jaskyniar ukazuje bielu dlaň.
Vyškriabal do skál úroveň prílivu.

Jaskyne sú. Ale nemôžeš sa v nich spoliehať
na slová. Iba prejsť za hranicu počute
ľnosti
svojho vnútorného hlasu.

V protisvite vtáci osíd
ľujú záhrady.
Hýbem sa v jemnom tlaku ich tieňov ako potrava.
Výkriky i šepot v bezvetrí hrdla,
vo vreckách plno púštneho piesku.

Ke
ď sa daždivo rozvidnieva,
vagóny sklenej vaty putujú hmlou
a opačným smerom vagóny semenáčikov
do južných spŕšok.

Počúvam, čo nasleduje za
zunením
ko
ľajníc.


PublisherNa prahu počuteľnosti

My dear friends! (English)

A man in his thin hat
is not at home for himself, but for someone.
Should he spread himself? Mature? Progress?

Look, clamour. Dull steel. Fading sounds.
Pressure on the forests. A table scraped to the bone.
Summer is closing down fast. Burnt sugar floods
the palate.
I live on urgent grass. Clear days
Have come from the North, from their country of origin.
The white tents of winter months, threats of
avalanche.
The warmth of the buried will again create
some sort of gap in the snow.
And on my table I have in stone the "body"
of a cephalopod severed by a layer of flint.
Not even resurrection could put it together!
The disunited are growing distant.
But who speaks up? Who survives in himself?
Yesterday is the same for as the whole
of the past.

Overhangs gleam into windows. Snow blends
with light. (Oh, overhangs with no roots,
luminescent links, with what?)
I desired glass between us
that with an interior flaw
would mark my side, my standpoint.
A blinded caver shows his white palm.
He scratched the level of the tide on the rocks.

There are caves. But in them you cannot rely
on words. Only go beyond the threshold of hearing
your inner voice.

In the counterlight birds populate the gardens.
There I move against gentle pressure of their shadows
                                                like nourishment.
There are both cries and whispers in the windlessness
                                                of my throat,
Pockets filled with desert sand.

As dawn breaks in rain
wagons of glass cotton travel through the fog
and in the opposite direction wagons of saplings
to southern showers.

I listen to what follows
the clanging
of the rails.
 


Source of the quotation100 Years of Slovak Literature, Vilenica

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