You will grow old and regret it,
that you hurt – what you are proud of today.
The conscience will knock in
and there will be no memory in which it would leave you to flee.
You will have an old dog and it will settle down next to you.
You will rest during the day, taking a nap in a chair,
because at night you will be afraid staying only on you.
Shadows hit the shivering gammer.
The old dog will squeak sometimes,
but there will be silence in the room, all in order;
but someone will be missed from old times
to be there in that lonely silent corner.
Then you will toddle: and if you toddled enough
with your bad legs, you sit down. Above in a golden frame,
there’s your younger picture. You mutter to that stuff:
“I didn’t hug her because I didn’t love her name.”
“What could I have done?” – you ask
but your toothless mouth can no longer respond;
and you close your eyes by the sun’s cast,
you can’t wait it to be mooned.
Because if you fall asleep, the bed will bounce,
like a young horse to take off the harness.
And fear is wondering, not romance,
in your head: to love, not to love, nevertheless.
You decide in yourself. I’m in pain
that I can’t answer if you ask: is he alive.
Because in me there’s an exhausted pain,
falling asleep as a child, and with that I will also dive.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Majd megöregszel” (1936).
Enlighten your child:
the beasts are human-kind;
the witches – mongers, roosters.
(Bastard dogs, not wolves!)
They either bargain or philosophize,
but they all trade hope for money;
some sells coal, some lovely lies
and some such poetic symphony.
And comfort him if it’s a comfort
to the child that it is a true sort.
Maybe, mutter a new tale,
with fascist-communist detail –
whereas there must be order in the world,
and the order is only for,
so that the child can hold worth
and be not free, that is fair.
And if the child opens his mouth
and looks up at you or cries, shouts –
don’t fall for him, don’t believe these
to stun your principles!
Look at the crafty baby:
growls to make you feel sorry beneath,
but while he’s smiling at the tittie,
he grows his nails and teeth.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Világosítsd föl” (1936).
Give them a moment of happiness,
a life-long watering and care;
they will make you bleed
with your first mistake
The abyss is too huge between you and me,
even if you managed to undress me.
I tried for a while to be the one for you,
even if sometimes it seemed untrue.
You think too easily and so you sense
your complex actions are fencing common sense.
For my emotions, a thousand thoughts wouldn’t be enough,
my actions are so few, I don’t tell to prevent the laugh.
The abyss is breaking, I’m waving from its side,
I really loved you, if I look inside.
My love is eternal, it will stay with you forever
but wee need to accept, this break won’t cease ever.
Many times, the break up hurts, as it will do now,
but there’s been worse than this, and will be better somehow.
We weren’t for each other the one
but then it will come, that person will come.
I’m thanking you every single minute,
I will not forget you, I promise. Salute!
Translated from my Hungarian poem, “Szakad a szakadék” (2008)
It rains drops,
drops of water molecules,
drops of Hydrogen and Oxygen combinations
with dust-like minerals and pollution
from the skies.
It drops rains;
rains of human feelings,
rains of coziness and shivering fevers
inside and outside of homes
been and never been.
It’s raining drops;
drops of eager-living hormones,
drops of synthetic concepts like poverty
with any form of possession
and with the lack of any’.
It’s dropping rains;
rains of drying happiness,
rains of sadness in a winter-like summer
with all the humanity
Cats and dogs;
it’s raining ceaseless happenings
it’s dropping away human-made humanities
and gives away paradise
for unknowing animals.
O’ good people, hither!
Send me down the river,
By a cold breeze that would make me shiver
If my heart were a heart, and my liver a liver.
O’ good life, thither!
I know we’ve been sévère,
But it could have been a hundred times shittier,
We’d say thanks for that we were here.
O’ good Benyo hièr!
You are no more here,
But we sing your songs that shiver,
And live without your heart or your liver.
I grab the pen,
In the sand.
On the beach.
As all the pens,
How it ends.
The words just land,
In my hand,
Through the waves.
They try to mend,
My heart’s wound,
By their sound.
It madly sends,
Waves and graves.
The murmurs end,
When the wind,
Ends its trend.
The waves are grand,
Once God’s grant,
Then graves (a)gain.
My skin is brand,
I’m well tanned,
The pain must end,
What I planned,
The thoughts are banned,
It’s the end,
I can’t stand.
I drop the pen,
In the sand,
On the beach.