Translated by Jovana Stojkovska
When is this “Indian summer” outside going to end
that’s threading even under my trousers?
When is the meteorological hygiene class going to start
that I’ve awaited for so long?
I’m still in the autumnal shower
that’s diluting my professional profile,
that’s driving me to hesitation,
to passivity,
in the choice of a literary mentor,
of a tutor that recommends a homework-reading list,
of a supervisor with a point of view,
of a reviewer with a sharpened dioptre,
that controls the stylistic steps,
that examines them,
that terminates,
that ties (down),
that moulds
Will I burst this metal armour?
Will I break the bars of the zoological garden?
When winter comes, I’ll bow low to her on my knees,
but then I’ll laugh in her face, because she’s late
like a native’s clock in the countryside…
I’ve been put under investigation, under inspection,
by the Slovakian writers, by the unknown,
by the hidden,
by the unrevealed,
by the yet-undiscovered,
here on the black floor,
they’re filling the white spots
like plaster for shallow holes,
for small openings,
for scant gaps,
for escaping to the other side –
from there-elsewhere to peep
or secretly at me
like paparazzi