I live, and it’s a rare moment.
The light is a white, little-finger sized
ray on the garden table’s bent.
Maybe you will come before it disguised.
This summer garden belongs to the shadows.
It’s calm this way today. I reckon.
The light is like barley mellows
leaking through the trees’ crown.
You’re not coming today. Standing by the corner.
The disk of the sun brightening:
thousands of celestial Iron-worker
spill the beer foam spreading.
I know it’s not so glad:
this non-coming, this junk alcohol
– I live, and it’s not my bad.
I promise it will be solved.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Péter Závada, “Boldog óra”.