Válek, Miroslav: Slovo (3)

Komunistickej strane, ktorá ma učí stať sa človekom

Zomrela pravda. A poézia s tvárou v závoji.
Aj v najlacnejšom slove veje čierny flór.
Predbiehajú sa ako divé: ktoré skôr
údesnú ranu sveta zahojí?

Ono sa ľahko povie: Ži!
No slovo ozaj málo zaváži.
Ba takmer nič. Len povedz: Ži a ver!
Noc, jednoznačná ako revolver.
A celá pravda v jednom náboji.

Už obzerá ťa mlčanlivá tma,
cynickým okom luny si ťa skúma,
okrúhlym ako Judášova suma;
ešte je nemá, ale už ťa má.

A ticho chodí po uliciach strach.
Ba aj strach akoby sa trocha bál
- či predlžujúc hrôzu, iba vyčkáva?
Ach,
demokracia je krvavá!
Ten starý žonglér slabý je
a zabíjaný zabije.
Páľ!

Dve hrdličky v piesku manéže,
kvety a nôž, ktorý zareže.
Páľ!
Úbohý anjel sa k spánku uložil
a vtáčiu hlavu ukryl pod krídla.
Páľ!

Krváca mesto z podrezaných žíl.
Vôňa vencov
a vôňa kadidla.
Páľ!
Do milencov.
(Popol lásky, buď im ľahučký.)
Páľ!
Lesklé oči detskej horúčky,
prsty katedrál,
znamenia putujúce po nebi,
označujúce boha,
čo sa zdráha.
Páľ!
Do dverí vsunula sa noha
vraha.
Páľ!
Horí rieka.
Zemeguľa piští ako brok,
fontána hlúpo strieka
do výšok.
Páľ!

Do človeka.
Rok:
(Doplňte vždy podľa potreby.)

Pán generál,
niet hodín, ktoré by
ukázali veľkosť nášho času.
Aj oči sôch
blednú od úžasu.
Dnes ukrižovali sme zasa tisíc kristov
odrazu.

Asepticky, čisto,
podľa rozkazu.
Zostalo len pár komunistov.
Škoda.

No generál
sám je boh.
Sám so sebou
partiu šachu hrá
a miesto slov
len mávne rukou: nazajtra!
A dodá:
„Nemusia ma milovať,
kým sa boja.
Buď vôľa moja.
Mat."

Bielym ránom beží čierny pes. Hádaj, hádaj, kde to bolo, hádaj ešte dnes. Kde to bolo, na tom nezáleží, takých miest je dosť. A čierny pes bielym ránom beží ako čiernou ranou. Pre šťastie a pre radosť, bielu, bielu ľudskú kosť nesie svojim pánom...

Komunisti?
Áno!
Pre vás tu máme zvláštnu výsadu:
život za zradu,
za zradu život.
Prisahajte falošne aj krivo,
ale hneď.
Mlčanie je jed.
Tak z rúčky do rúčky:
kto chceš, ber.
Porozumeli ste?

Ježišu Kriste,
Akí tichučkí!
Do slučky
Tú zver!

The truth has died. And veiled faced poetry pays her deal.
Even the cheapest word is wearing the black fur. 
They wildly compete like teacher's pets: who first
a dreadful wound of the world will heal?

It's easy to say: Live!
But a mere word will little please.
Almost nothing. Just say: Live and bear!
The night, unequivocal like a revolver.
And the whole truth is waiting in one shell.

The taciturn darkness took the sky,
examines you with a cynic moon's eye,
round like a Judas sum;
it's mute yet, but you are done.

And the fear's quietly creeping in the streets.
Even the fear seems to fear a little
-  or prolonging the dread just waiting?
Ooh,
the democracy is full of blood!
That old juggler is getting old
and being killed is killing-cold.
Fire!

In the sand of circus ring lay two doves,
the wreaths and the knife which stabs.
Fire!
A poor angel to the sleep himself lays
and the bird's head hides like  in defense .
Fire!

The town is bleeding from cut veins.
The scent of flowers
and the scent of an incense.
Fire!
To the lovers.
(Ashes to ashes, love to love)
Fire!
the metal sound of child’s cough,
the fingers of cathedrals,
the omens passing the sky,
announcing the God,
who hesitates further.
Fire!
The door gets a sudden hold
by a murderer.
Fire!
The river is burning.
The globe is swishing like a pellet,
the fountain stupidly squirting
at full pelt.
Fire!

To a man.
The year:
(Fill in always as it suits.)

General,
there is no clock which would
show the greatness of our time.
The astonishment is paling even the statues' eye.
Today again we crossed a thousand Christs and priests
at once.

Aseptically, pristinely,  
with order accordance.
We kept just few communists.
Pity.

Though general
he is a god himself.
Against himself
he plays the chess, he'll glance at his serfs
he just carelessly waves his hand:
to tomorrow!
And he adds:
"No need for anyone affectionate,
the fear they have to follow.
My will be done.
Chess mate."

In the white morning the black dog is running. Guess where that was, guess it today yet. Where it was and happened it does not matter, how it could, there is a plenty of such places, and the black dog is running in the white morning like through the black wound. It is fetching a white, white human bone white like daises to cheer up masters' faces.

Communists!
Yes!
For you we've got special privilege:
life for breach,
for breach, life,
Swear falsely, lie,
come on.
Silence is a venom.
From hand to hand:
Whoever pleases, have it.
Understood?

Jesus good,
how silent they are!
Hang
that brute!