Máya a Ja

Rimbaut by hovoril o ruži. Ktorá uvädne. Časom. Prirovnal by nás k nej. Krehké ženské telo. Ako sa bez duše krčí v kúte postele. So strachom zo straty sa načahuje za jeho rukou. Pýtavá. Nepoznaná. Túži po poetickosti. Ako ospravedlnenie za seba.

Keď jeho telo onemie. Pochopí, že milovala viac. Viac ako oči, ruky, tvár. Mladú, pehy sa zbehali na jednom líci. Na druhom. Ľúbila viac.

Aká je krása, nedotklivá. Solná váza. Zameníš si ju za kryštáľ. Dotykom sa topí. Vidina večnosti.

Rimbaut by hovoril o ruži. Joyce by hovoril o pláži. Woolfová o vtákoch.

O čom by sme hovorili my? Nepoetickí, chvíľkoví, pouliční, naivní, nestáli.

So strachom zo straty sa načahujem za tvojou rukou. Prepáč. Možno klamem.

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Rimbaut would talk of roses. Which die. As time passes. He would compare us to them. A fragile woman´s body. Mindless, hiding in the corner of a bed. Fearing of lost, she reaches out for his hand. Demanding. Unknown. Dreaming of poetics. As an excuse for being herself. When soul leaves the body. She understands she loved more. More than eyes, hands and face. Young one, freckled cheeks. More than that. What is beauty? Untouchable. Salt vase. Melting upon a touch,  the vision of eternity. Rimbaut would talk of roses. Joyce of beach. Woolf of birds. What would we talk about? Unpoetical, fragmented, naive, passive, fugitive strangers?

Fearing of lost, I am reaching out for your hand.

 I am sorry. I might not be telling the truth.

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Sivý Dublin sa zbláznil. Telá telá. Svetlá. Čas. Čas. Čas? Dážď. Bozk. Trance. Ticho. Svetlá. Mosty. Voda. Telá. Milenci. Cudzinci. Samotári. Mesto. Milenci bez mena. Klamári.