To the poet, Attila

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.

Benyamin Bensalah

Translated from my Hungarian poem, “Attilànak”(2008)


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