There are so many courses I could have taken,
so many paths, fighting down my traumas,
so many hearts to make my own re-awaken,
but there would be always a me…
… who has to suffer.
So, I am not mistaken that it is me…
The Martyr of My Happy Alteregos.
Cornered by this ill-fate ordered,
but there must exist an alternate ending,
not scorched-land bordered;
the thoughts are so vain, but somehow mending…
I’m at the threshold,
but the threshold of what
I cannot know;
it’s just a feeling.
I never experienced home
to say I’m at the threshold
of something, a door
to belong anywhere.
Through my life
I was alone,
struggling of myself,
I found it hard
to ask for help
while I knew
But still, I kept
this feeling, and
yelped at a threshold.
You who can’t hear the scream of silence;
The shrieking loneliness of days and nights,
You who can’t see the shades of indifference;
The invisible sadness in the ever smiling eyes,
You who can’t touch life in ceaseless roughness;
The dried out face that only in the heart cries,
You who can’t taste the rejoice as bitterness;
The rockbottoms of an endless precipice,
You who can’t feel the lifelong unpeace;
The homelessness in roof disguise,
How could you understand the words of mine’s;
The life inside a violin’s fall and rise,
How could you understand Peace;
A moment my heart so eagerly desires,
Being absent on me in the whiles.
It doesn’t matter to me: is there a god or not
And certainly I would believe in him,
But I don’t even have that much free time.
If He helps me, it’s better for Him,
If He doesn’t help, it won’t get any worse.
If there is, then He couldn’t be worse
Than the one we used to have,
If there is: I don’t worth even a dog,
If there’s not: I don’t worth even a dog,
Neither better nor worse.
Sooner or later the poor
Has to go crazy,
Or hang on to a branch,
Except if he starts to realize,
That the poor here is God,
The rich are just angels;
Our sigh gives them wings
And in the crawling creation
Why would we need angels?
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Nekem mindegy”(1924).
Like biting into lemon over and over again,
Life squeezes fun out of my face:
Although my hand feels the round apple,
My eyes can see the rich peach,
The rapture of thousands of sweet colors …
But when I reach for them,
Take to my mouth the manna of Eden:
Bitter tastes try to let me know
That you’re in a very bad place,
This is not your world …
Translated from my Hungarian poem, “Mindig citrom”.
All my once lover of mine!
All the broken worlds I left behind…
Are all cleared with this simple rhyme:
All villains are victims;
I don’t mind.
All murderers were murdered a kind,
Not literally maybe, but in their mind…
The cruel circumstances behind,
The helplessness of a preprogrammed mind,
And when they cried for justice,
The world replied: I don’t mind.
All villains are victims;
We’ve been destroyed under grind…
Like torturing a child
To turn into a torturer of the same kind –
Crying: why would I mind?!
Been accused for having lied?
Building a world and ruining it from inside?
Do you think this is what I strived?
Where were y’all to stop me, stop the child…
You know what… I don’t mind!
I’m remaining proud to wear the destiny of mine;
Since my childhood ages the pains abide –
It’s the world that made me such of a kind…
I’m the villain of my own life,
If there’s casualties, as a victim, I don’t mind.
You know there’s no forgiveness
so, it’s vain to turn to sadness.
Be what you meant to be: a man.
After you, there still grows grass.
The sin will not get lighter,
so, it’s vain if you water.
That you are an evidence to this,
thank what you could acquire.
Don’t blame, don’t swear
don’t be a jerk to yourself
don’t worship and don’t seduce
don’t join the army unaware.
don’t look at the secrets.
And with humanity,
since you are a man, don’t be reckless.
Remember you growled
and in vain you implored.
You have become a false witness
at your own record.
You called Father being fallen,
man if you found none in heaven.
And you found grown bad spots
in your psychoanalytic canon.
You believed in easy talking,
in friends been just acting
and see, never, never anyone
said that you were worthy.
They cheated, they loved me so
you cheated and you can’t love also.
Now, grab the loaded gun
and squeeze it to your empty torso.
Or throw away all the principles
and still hope for faithful love-riddles,
since like a dog you would believe
in anyone who’d see you still love-able.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Tudod hogy nincs bocsánat”(1937).
Might is far away from me;
I might have sent it away from me
by sending the Almighty away from me,
but firstly, He sent away all good I might be.
We loved each other, I did more than any –
You let me push you away, so did many –
Why couldn’t you do a lil fight for me?
We are not friends; I don’t have any –
You push me away, so do many –
Why can you return then to me?
We will forget, I will not do any –
You already did, so did many –
Why you let it happen to me?