Will it worth it? was it worth it?
Curve that was in line.
Where is the strength and the luck?
What casts you off? Who leads you in?
From her, to her, in her, for her,
at her, to her, though not, why not,
to here, from there, there too, not here,
then if, so that, and so, though not,
always, once, impossible,
oh, go on, no, not that, no, no,
sometimes though, never again,
with her, to there, for ever after:
how many opened and lost roads,
how many traps, how many zigzags,
dying slowly, killing fast,
inside the heart, out in fate,
and to believe there’s a winner – loser,
we get to the line:
was it worth it? will it worth it?
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Lőrinc Szabó, “ÉLET”.
Standing on the edge of this forgotten galaxy,
we are guarding a life,
an innocent future
that we sent behind bars
to live on water and bread,
then we guard it with all powers
something that we didn’t let to live
that is already
in a place that has no escape,
but we are still guarding –
we don’t mind to look at it,
it would make us cry,
but we are the guards
who need to bear
of a life.
No more good nights,
No more talks
About our future goals –
There’s no discussing,
Like a labored cussing –
Is it here, or we are cold,
Our blanket is unfold
Sewn from words untold –
There’s the blanket flying,
The frozen drops of crying –
No more close thoughts,
No more decent talks –
We are gone in distant holes.
I can’t compare myself to none,
but to some images I saw on TV
how skin and bone lions abandon
every drop of zeal:
They walk, leave stone by stone,
kicking the dust alone
with a barren look on the barren
fighting for no more.
Why eating, cleaning? Where to go?
It’s a must to go…
Belonging to nowhere,
they are just in constant leaving.
They are unaccepted, exiled –
some days might’ve been different,
but now days and nights
conclude them as indifferent.
We are walking; walking is a must:
no place, no time needs us,
only escaping what remains to us,
then, we finally join the dust.
My problems weight 85 kilograms,
their age reached 29 years so far,
they circulate in synopses;
they are measurable.
I’ve got 99 problems if we say,
and the world isn’t among,
the world is living;
I am dead.
The world is living at its place,
I am lost inside me,
the world is fine;
I am not.
Ninety nine problems I say,
they are all measurable,
My problems weight boundlessly,
they are horribly immesurable,
reality broke in my synopses;
When your tortured heart goes silent,
A big questionnaire will be your defiant.
What your motionless lips sigh,
An invisible clerk will take notes by.
What you are going to answer – because you have to answer! –
Where did you let your life go to disaster?
Where did you turn left instead of right?
Answer! Do you know the cursed time?
If you were given a divine miracle,
Say: would you go back there empirical?
Like seeking the handle of a lost axe,
Would you start again the long road’s acts?
While pursuing desire and urging trouble,
Would you dare to run another Marathon?
All that is vile, lying, and false,
Would you go through it, say, through the same faults?
Why? Why?! For new goals? Or…
To get where you are now?
So that, forgetting all the old torments,
You can cry and fray again with no ends?
For this cheap misery as a prize
For this more bitter than sweet, tiny life?
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Jenő Heltai, “Kérdőív”.
Have you ever asked the toy
you were playing with
if it liked to be your toy?
It is all nice that it’s a toy,
fulfilling its purpose
to play with, innit?
No matter leaving it
in the darkness of the night
for hours, right?
Or forgetting it in hurry
for a hell of a weekend.
No thoughts of such
as the first minute hurts
just as the 1440th and so.
The minute of turning off the light
heading out or to the fridge
hurts the same infinity.
You haven’t thought about it
how is it to be alone
How is it to swing
between having a purpose
and being in senseful nonexistence?
Oh, how would you
when your grief lasts no more
than a minute when it disappears?
Life serves us lessons all the time
most of them are unwanted
coming from something else wanted
unasked, coming from something else asked
unprepared, being for something else prepared
we pretend they haven’t happened
until they come back again and again
till we learn the lesson
being another us
we are ready for the next lesson
that will never happen.
Floating silhouettes in the darkness of the space;
history formed us through eras
from simple solid objects with fix dynamics
into an unknown, hideous mass.
We share the shape that’s not our shape,
only the abstract play of our past;
how and what lightbeam we hide away,
push away and blend is mistery.
We share a space that’s not our space,
what we lived surpasses all;
then, when we collide we create a new,
another place never seen.
We share an age that’s not our age,
our past is mere illusion,
faintly reflecting on the present
that is already unknown.
Floating mysterious mass of data,
we are nothingness- and infinity-close
big noisy-silent mess of backholes.
My indifference surpasses Earth’s billions species,
my wild philosophies boil hotter than Venus,
my grief’s still colder than Pluto’s deepest valleys,
my carelessness embraces the whole space;
still, there’s a crying child in me
who doesn’t want more than being loved
and told motherly that this is your very place.