I’m grave guilty, I think,
but I feel good.
The only that disturbs me in this nothing,
why I have no sin if there’s this mood.
That I am guilty is not doubtful.
But whatever I think
my sin is something else awful.
Maybe it’s a foolish thing.
Like a miserly lost gold,
I seek this sin;
I left a mother for it to be found
although my heart is thin.
And I will find it one day
as heroes of virtue ;
and to confess, I will pay a coffee
for all my crew.
I will tell: I killed. I do not know
who, maybe my father –
been watching as his blood flow
on a clotted night’s altar.
I stabbed him with a knife. I’m not coloring
since we are all in one manhood
and as we get stabbed, suddenly
then we fall down too.
I will tell. And I’ll be waiting (as it’s obliged),
who runs away busily;
I will watch who is surprised;
who dreads happily.
And I notice someone
who with his eyes, warmly
indicates just that: There’s other one
and you are not lonely …
But maybe, my sin is childish
and foolish really.
Then, the world will be tiny
and I will let it play silly.
I don’t believe in God and if there’s,
let him not bother with me ;
I will justify myself;
who lives will help me.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “A Bűn” (1935).