We could have been children,
Rich and irresponsible –
Men having not a problem
That wouldn’t be disputable.
The life could be a play, for us;
Instead, the life was playing with us –
We were told whom to be, by others,
Without friends, sisters, brothers.
We could see the world happy,
But we had been inheridely saddy –
Even though, our heart was welcoming,
One after another badly wrecking.
It could be all different for us,
But there came only burden on us –
We, whom the light kept escaping,
Have seen the world as cheating.
We could be a member of this madness,
When I remember the disinheritance –
We both are particularly alone,
Homelessly, silently dying alone.
Translated from my Hungarian poem, “Attilànak”(2008)