Po třiceti letech, kdy jsem ji poprvé četl, u Vojenského útvaru Civilní Obrany v Bučovicích , při základní vojenské službě.

Co je to třicet let ? Nic, ta hrůza je stejná. Co může člověk člověku udělat.

The Pit

Ivan Goran Kovačič

BLOOD is my daylight, and darkness too.               
Blessing of night has been gouged from my cheeks                   
Bearing with it my more lucky sight.               
Within those holes, for tears, fierce fire inflamed                     
The bleeding socket as if for brain a balm –               
While my bright eyes died on my own palm.               

While played, I never doubt, God's feathered creatures,
Reflected still in them, and clouds' procession;   
But all I felt were my blood–spattered features,
Bruised gulfs in that once brillant profusion.   
Haw radiant lay my eyeballs in my hand,
Yet from those eyes no tear could more descend!

Then ever other fingers ran the warm
Coagulating blood my slaughterer found   
By the profounder agony of holes he formed
For better grip, more sensuously to wound;   
But me the softness of my blood enthralled,
And I rejoiced as blood were red tears falling.

The final light before the frightful night
The lightning swooping of the polished knife,   
The cry too white still in my blinded sight,
The bleach-white bodies of the murderers,   
Who stripped their torsos for their sweaty task –
Was dazzling even to my blinded mask.

O painful daylight, never so hard yet
Or penetrating did you break the East   
With fiery arrow; I might have thought I shed
Teardrops with leaping flames that seared my cheeks   
Through all that hell so many lightnings brent,
So many cries of other victims rent.

What time that furious conflagration fanned,
All that I knew of time were callouses for eyes,   
Hard-grown and aching; and could hardly stand.
And only then my slippery eyeballs fingered   
And knew – and cried: My sight, O Mother mine, is gone.
How shall I wepp when your life too is done?

Then dazzling daylight like a myriad carillons
From endless gleaming bell-towers in my crazy   
Brain illumined like the lights of Zion,
A lovely light – a light which sanctified –   
Bright birds, bright river, trees and, brilliant
Boon pure as mother's milk, still brighter moon.

Now came a torture I had never guessed –
My murderer commanded "Break your own eyes!"   
I nearly prayed for mercy to the beast,
But slimy-fingered spasmic hands obeyed –   
And then no more I heard, no more could tell,
To empty nothyng faltered, and I feel.

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