W. Martin 

Translator

Does it mean for you what it means for me,

this air I breathe and/or water I drink

and/or language I speak and so on?

I walked through the forest, saw fern and blossoming

blueberries, the same forest you once

walked through, too, probably noticing these

notched logged trunks, moss in the right direction.

Try to speak my language was my suggestion

to everyone I met. Truth is, they weren’t many;

on broken pavements I only touched a few branches.

I was light and thin, practically a leaf, feeling practically

watered down, a practically messed-up puff ball,

a different nature. Without an expounded meaning,

without warning. Weird content on your

forehead, soap-bubble smiles on lips,

ramshackle hayracks and granaries full of juggling equipment,

your trade. In this puzzled traffic it’s better

to stay young, in other people’s eyes and in your enchanted

forest. With other people’s eyes, in a different nature

that sometimes lets you get close, but then runs

in the opposite direction, where you choose these words

in a quiet room, quiet until they’re spoken

and/or played on an evaporated violin,

the twitching of bitter strings.

Forgive me for being so inconsiderate
praise from the people close to you matters most
love is a rushing homeland on a bicycle
and war only frightful news on people's tongues

under coats stone particles crumble
these don't overlook anyone's weaknesses
but try and do whatever makes you satisfied
fear is the forger of someone else's money

the body is an inner tube filled to the brim with air
the universe an airless prisonhouse of the mind
whoever dies won't say another word

is war merely frightening news on people's lips
if only everyone did what made them happy
change is a rushing homeland on a bicycle

First song speaks of the old way
of life. How things were set
in the beginning and how it was clear where
they should end or outlined begin again

with familiar feelings. But then the cuckoo
started to strike greater hours, and grass
grew taller and flowers blossomed more beautifully
and afternoon strollers gazed at hitherto missed colours.

Snow still white, but cleaner
and brighter, the sky above the roof tiles still blue,
but blue in the goldenness of a perfect
afternoon, and the song still resounding

in its evergreen tones. The stars cast
their glance towards us like surprised acquaintances
bumping into one another after a thousand years,
and the book sticks to its claim even after a thousand years,

and a special river has crawled between
the glittering rocks from the old riverness
polished to perfect shapes like durable
hearts tossed into its winding.

Not a month to name
nor a year to know when
it all started, only sounds of moments
poured into an ear and the time unknown

as though all time was past, your original sin
still buried in your sleep and from an empty
pocket you can pull your first song
which took you there. But it is plain and clear now,

only its chorus that you once knew by heart
keeps changing, so that you can never catch the words.

Will you always skate alone.
Will your skating pay off.

Skater, the music blusters out of silence
stronger,
your heart keeps balance with the skates.

The giant shapes of cities want you melancholy,
but you can't stop to catch the open talk.

And you skate alone (as if someone was skating beside you),
in a crowd of skaters (and yet you skate alone).

How you change, you know what's under the sky,
how skilled your skates are!

Even the first skater wants to show you how to be
the fastest skater in the rink of the universe!

That you are not the only one,
that there are those more competitive,
but not everyone can be in the wonderful thicket of the void.

Are you following the sky, follow it, follow it,
there's always something momentous there.

Just don't tell people about your skating.
They wouldn't believe you kept your balance on your own.

Stop always saying what makes you happy.
You're not the only one with jagged skates.

Skate as if you were skating on your own.
Skate as if you were skating alone.

Boy, where are you skating, in your anger
you have lost your bearings.

There is a universe attracting you
and your skates take leave of the ground.

Do dancers dance on their heads here
or do they simply fall
and are deep in their fast falling.

Tiny dots are planets and the skates
every so often slide off the curved surface.

Is this a dance of dancing or has the earth
danced for all time and your skating is only a wish.

If you move with such haste, can anyone ever
stop you, see you take off your skates.

You are a fine skater, your skating
the flight of a comet's shards through the cosmos.

Did you ever see a shooting star, catch sight
of lightning, suddenly, hear big banging.

Did your inner human voice burst or
close-lipped voice for the first time.

Ah, you tremble (gliding into the void),
the skates groan: regret nothing.

Pick up castaway skates and glide
across frozen pavements.

Point-blank honed, cut into the surface
and let the legs with the skates be one.

Skate away quickly, alone, as though it were a race,
pay no attention to shouts: “Where is he skating?”

It’s good to skate this way, no bounds
under skates everything is allowed.

You’re the lone skater down here, you see
neither marks nor shadows the skates cast.

You glide among the city lights,
you hold your balance,
you don’t fall over backwards.

The skates leave a sharp trace of lines,
grooves in the shimmering surface under them.

So, take a dusty old pair and skate away
into a skidding substance, there you’ll feel whole.

Skate by yourself and under you, ice will turn
to a quickened liquid.

Don’t tell people about your skating.
Skate as though you weren’t skating alone.

I’m sure you absolutely have to
trust imagination and the tracks
that language takes in pathlessness.
It probably knows. In any case,
it’s smarter than we are, probably our only support.
When you walk through the desert you need water
and spare parts for the jeep.
So take everything you find in this dictionary,
and everything you don’t. You might need it.
Even later, even when you no longer are —
apparitions of comets over the dunes,
and the stars will shine on.