[Leto neodchádza]

Leto neodchádza, zostáva ako zápal na vydýchaných cestách,
teplý kameň, ani stopy po krokoch (a predsa vlhký vzduch);
rany sa nehoja, rovnaký pohyb každé popoludnie – rukou si
z očí zotrieť prach a olej z rozohriatych kolies. Október.

Ani nie návrat: trvanie v štrbinách, mesto si nepamätá,
nechceš si ani ty: stŕpnuté chodidlá, popraskané ruky, prečo si nepriznať –
úžina, pasáž, spoza rohu sa namiesto (istej) spomienky vynorí
ulica. Ďalšia. Rovnaká.

A na peróne šialenec, načisto opustený
(nikto sa ho už neľaká), prestupná stanica Réaumur-Sébastopol:
na samom vrchu spí človek v ponožkách,
z jednej mu trčí obväz, no iba málokto si trúfne zakryť nos.

Za oknom bez roliet sa ktosi opíja,
celkom sám, za oknom s roletou si premaľúvam tvár,
nevetrám, potichu vzývam telefón,
až napokon zaspím.

© Mária Ridzoňová Ferenčuhová
Produção de áudio: Ars Poetica

[Summer never leaves]

Summer never leaves, remaining like an inflammation on breathed-out ways
Warm stone, not a trace of footsteps (damp air regardless);
Wounds don‘t heal, the same movement every afternoon – wiping off with its hand
Dust from the eyes and oil from heated up wheels. October.

Not even return: lasting in cracks, the city doesn’t remember,
nor want you: numb feet, cracked hands, why not admit –
straight, passage, from around the corner instead of (a certain) memory emerges
A street. Another one. The same.

And a madman on the platform, completely derelict
(nobody scares him anymore), change-over station Réaumur-Sébastopol:
at the very top a man in socks sleeps,
from one of them a bandage is sticking out, but few dare cover their noses.

Behind a window without shades, somebody is getting drunk,
All alone, behind a window with a shade I‘m remaking my face,
I don’t air, silently imploring the telephone,
Till I finally fall asleep.

English Translation: Pavol Lukáč.
From the book: Princíp neistoty. Bratislava: Ars Poetica, 2008.