Pavol Janik

1956 / Bratislava

You Can Tell An Angel From His Feathers

(For my parents who are not yet - departed-)
In my innermost display cases
all my glassy memories tremble.
At the end of silence to hear last year's rain
how it dictates whispering
its incomprehensible telegram
A pack of sad angels
howl in the light of the moon
The river falls from weariness,
the mortal spirit of water
in it falls with ease
to the bottom
I feel mercury in my veins
after the explosion of blood
- it's in my guts
supersonic angels
rise from the dead.
Their deafening engines
start up in my head.
When they take off
the deepest silence begins
in which perhaps I'll hear
distant pearls
how they pour on the parquets.
A morning confession of frozen tears
freezes me
in my yet more Autumn eyes.

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