What you got is only my character.
I’m nothing else than mere formality.
You expected there were,
behind the being, an identity.
You didn’t take account of the others,
tho there’s no lack of substance.
The fact that I am, won’t be fillers
of my empty existence.
To love is common courtesies.
Who is empty cannot belong to you.
I have nothing, but the injuries
that I let you go.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Péter Závada, “Macskakör”.