As a child who swore revenge
and set the father’s house on fire
and now strangeness settles on him like a foggy stench,
and only by the one against whom he did conspire,
he could cry himself out, his covered up
face to show his free smile, –
I am forcing it so hopelessly I’d rather give up
to my tears: to find what I am worthwhile.
I cremated a world in my heart
and there’s no good word to cry on as a start,
huddled up I am just waiting for the prodigy,
that someone may come to accept my apology
and tells me nicely what absurdity
needs to be forgiven in this pitfall of mort!
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Mint gyermek…”(1935).