1

A landscape – a map.

Houses scattered around

or completely washed away,

remnants of squares,

intersections with perfect surface,

carefully drawn lanes,

black-white,

not a trace of blood,

an abandoned construction set,

only the road is absorbed by mud

or mud licks the road.

 

A little boy has lost interest,

dribbling the ball on another playground.

 

2

Thousands of springlets, streams, feeders

run on the rocks, growing wider,

advancing, roaring,

and if you stumble,

first they go round you like a pebble,

even someone stops, dams the stream,

other ones leap over, pull,

walk on,

trample down ­–

 

a bit further,

down aslant,

in the red heat

the only drop slides down the tube,

falls on s stone, bounces off, sizzles,

the remaining ones evaporate by the way –

 

a rough and dry

little tongue

licks my hand:

 

more.

 

 

3

Somewhere on the fringe of perception

lithospheric plates

move for a while,

the back straightens out,

vertebra crack,

the earth moves,

the giantess yawns,

and what falls inside,

she immediately digests.

 

4

A landscape – a postcard.

Containers, boxes,

the noses of houses dug into the soil.

In the giant cracks of pavements

what confronts invasions of pickers are only boards,

papers and bricks.

On an empty ground there remained two trees.

Celestial peace

– or at least almost celestial –

on the cathedral without towers

ruins still stand on end like hair.

 

5

We are watchmakers.

Me and my little son.

He has two alarm clocks. He says:

I want these two alarm clocks

to be next to each other.

This one will be Next to

and this one Each other.

 

To create the world of words.

Of nothing:

 

6

A landscape – a scenery.

Once magnificent buildings,

palaces of modernism,

high railway headquarters

with all windows smashed,

a station, a hotel, a department store,

a hospital, a villa on the hill,

nearby housing estates,

cardboards, concrete, glass,

cracked hard cement plaster,

subsiding walls, layers of dirt,

skeletons of cities in too vast space.

And hordes of vandals

on low horses

occupy distant shores,

there is still a place to travel to,

things to eat

and anything old could be

searched out in archives

but hardly anyone would do it.

 

7

Not everything is in vain.

Now and then grass trembles,

lashes rise, slightly exposing the look.

You look at me. You see me.

Today my hair won’t fall on forehead,

a front shot won’t be cancelled by a quick cut.

I won’t hide behind the display again,

today we’ll rest on the axis of our looks

at eye level

(you needn’t always wish to get as far as to heaven)

and move the look from above the table

nearby,

into the sleeping-room or on the carpet.

 

8

Mucous membranes, villi, tissue, cytoplasm,

fibrils, folded clusters, geometrical figures,

– a world ruined at a stroke.

The substance remains constant:

one organism absorbs another,

building palaces on its foundations.

A haemorrhagic shock, studying the content of the chamber pot,

external signs, sunken eyes, dry mouth,

weariness. A faint smile. Without a smile.

Or without any sign:

a sudden fall from the staircase right to the coma.

The torn, cut, scratched

skin at least allows to watch

the process of healing.

I can’t hear moist threads tear inside me.

I observe the skin in panic.

It must reflect what goes on inside!

But macro world replies micro world.

Somewhere in the distance other cities

collapsed with rumbling and no resistance.

 

9

We embrace each other in an old house,

when it shakes with construction works in the loft.

We hide behind double glazing and thick walls,

under the ceiling held up just by the warmed up air.

We pushed the cot to our bed

to feel safer,

while the wind rattles

the open roof and the sun whitens it

like a trepanned skull of a patient dead for centuries.

 

10

You sleep. The dust on the furniture doesn’t stir.

The parquet floor isn’t squeaky.

Our son still sleeps, too.

Only on the walls, among the toys,

in the bookcase and under the cupboard,

in the bathroom behind the washing machine,

next to the sofa and on the window frame

his clock ticks fiercely, with no mercy.

 

Translated by Marián Andričík