Válek, Miroslav: Dejiny trávy
Dejiny trávy (Slovak)Oldřichovi Mikuláškovi To by ste radi videli, ten fosfor! Tú lúku, svietiacu ako hodinky, keď ukazuje jar! Ešte má mäkké lýtka, svaly ju budú bolieť a už sa na svahu mihne jej zelený kabriolet, ó, akcelerácia tráv! A chlorofyl! A jarné klíčenie! A dvestotisíc iných hlúpostí! Hlava vás z toho nezabolí a tráva už vchádza do ďalšieho kola. Zaspievaj niečo veselé, zaspievaj, ale rýchle! Splašení ako jelene, starneme tráve na očiach. A už to nie je pretekársky voz, hrmenie jarných motorov, šialenstvo tribún! Je tu len smutné auto s pivom, z ktorého vyhadzujú zelenú fľašu s penou v hrdle, žriebätá, koníky lúčne, napodobňujúce cval. Raz a dva, vysoko kolená, spievať! A tak sa človek dožil tisíc rokov. Musel len bežať, predbiehať s penou v hrdle, nik sa ho nespýtal: „Prečo?“ A „Kam?“ A kto sa spýtal trávy, kam rastie a prečo? Kto sa spýtal na jej vnútorný život? Kto aspoň steblo trávy preložil do ľudskej reči? Nič, iba oheň a dážď. A tráva pracuje: nad chodbami krtov, nad hrobom, nad hrobom, počúva nárek mora, šelest nad aortou, premieňa požiar slnka, blúznenie vody, premieňa mŕtve veci na živé, trápi sa sama v sebe, hľadá im správny tvar. Napísané sú: dejiny vojen, dejiny filatelie a futbalu. Dejiny trávy nikto nenapísal. Z hľadiska trávy je to bezvýznamné. Jej dejiny sú dlhé a plynulé. Premávajú v nej expresy a nájazdníci hryzú hrivy koní. Zapadá do nej zlatovlasá hlava a mnohý kohútik v nej stratil hrebienok, ó, pozná bludné hviezdy! Tráva vie, po čom býva krv. V pamäti drží všetky letné lásky, cudzoložstvá a beštiálne vraždy. Ale tráva je trpezlivá a citlivá. Tráva všetko zakryje. Mlčí. Nepozerajte na ňu zvysoka. Tráva vie, od čoho mŕtvych bolí zub, tráva vie všetko o živote a smrti. Tráva má presný zoznam nádejí a sĺz. Vypočítala vašu definitívnu podobu, podčiarkla si vás zelenou a čaká. Raz všetko pochopím a odhalím ti skryté súvislosti vecí. Poď, vyjdeme do tmy počúvať pôrodné bolesti trávy, krutý kŕč koreňov, praskanie buniek, vrenie štiav. Už všetkému rozumiem, akoby sám som bol trávou. Polož si ruku na chrbát noci, počúvaj dobre, čo vravím: Nič, iba oheň a dážď! |
The history of the grass (English)For Oldřich Mikulášek
You should have seen it – that phosphorescence! That meadow, glowing like a wristwatch showing springtime! Its legs are feeble still, its muscles will ache but already on the hillside flashes its green cabriolet, O, acceleration of grasses! And chlorophyll! And vernal sprouting! And two hundred thousand other kinds of nonsense! Your head’s not spinning yet but the grass is already starting the next lap. Sing something gay, sing something, quickly! Frightened like deer we’re ageing before the grass’s eyes. And now it is no longer the racing car, the thunder of vernal motors, the frenzy of the grandstands! It’s just a sad vehicle with beer from which they’ve flung a green bottle with froth in its throat, young foals, grasshoppers imitating a gallop. One – two pick up those legs squad: sing! And thus man lived to reach a thousand years. He just had to run, overtake with froth in his throat, nobody asked him: “Why” or “Where to?” And who asked the grass which way it was growing and why? Who asked about its inner life? Who translated as much as a blade of grass into human speech? Nothing, except fire and rain. And the grass works: above the moles’ passages, above the grave, above the grave, it hears the lament of the sea, the murmur above the aorta, it transforms the sun’s conflagration, the water’s madness, it transforms dead things into living things, it torments itself with itself, it seeks their proper forms. These have been written: the history of wars, the history of stamp-collecting and football. The history of grass has not been written by anyone. From grass’s point of view this is irrelevant. Its history is long and continuos. Express trains ply in it and horsemen bite their horses’ manes. A head with golden hair sinks into it and many a cock has lost its comb in it. Oh yes, it knows the errant stars! Grass knows what leads to blood. Its memory holds all those summertime loves, adulteries and brutal murders. But grass is patient and sensitive. Grass covers everything. It keeps its silence. Do not look down on it condescendingly. Grass knows what gives a toothache to the dead, it knows all about life and death. It has an accurate record of hopes and tears. It has worked out your definitive form, it has underlined you in green and now waits. One day I shall understand everything and will reveal to you the secret connections of things. Come, let’s go out into the darkness to hear the birthpangs of the grass, the fierce spasm of the roots, the bursting of the cells, the bubbling of the sap. Now I understand everything as though I were a blade of grass myself. Place your hand on the back of night, and listen carefully to what I say to you: Nothing, except fire and rain! |