Poem by Pavol Janik
The moment air stops
close in front of your face
and checks the size of your lungs,
the moment the sun addresses you
with the agreed secret word,
then it’ll be clear to you.
The horizon could be crossed
and other matters considered.
The heights furiously disclose
the concrete constructions of their peaks.
In the crowns of trees the telephone switchboards rattle.
You ripen an octave higher.
Translated into English by James and Vera Sutherland- Smith