:::
Okolo zápästia hady, varené pokrmy syčia pod pokrievkou. Niekedy neviem, ako ďalej, zaprášené knihy receptov, nemáš pre mňa liek. Z postele sa dvíham, nútim sa vstávať, počúvať príbehy začínajúcej jari.
:::
Dopadá mäkko na rozohriatu zem, chvíľu niečo viem. “It´s been here, silent all these years.” (Tori Amos)
:::
Nechám to tak, natiahnem na gitaru nové struny.
Zuním.
:::
There are snakes around my wrists, the meals being cooked hiss under the pot-lid. Sometimes I do not know how to go on, dusty cookery books, you have no prescription for me. I raise myself from the bed, force myself to get up, listen to the stories of the beginning spring.
:::
It´s falling softly upon the warmed-up ground, I feel aware for a moment. “It´s been here, silent all these years.” (Tori Amos)
:::
I´ll let go. Put new strings on my guitar.
Resounding.
