That you were as cold as ointments.
This was left over from that summer.
To cuddle in the shadow of your sentences,
as if under a tree.
Plus, the difference of pressure,
which turns the breath into sigh.
The problems like empty tin cans
were rattling in your chest.
I think I’m confusing you with your memory.
If I want to reach you,
I have to stretch through time
like through a mirror.
Back then you were the one
who I am looking for now.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Péter Závada, “AKIT MOST KERESEK”.
Purple madness emerged with black death;
Drums and dulcimers are the words now that were said,
Shrilling masquerade dresses the faces,
Modern design and fool norms are the old disgraces.
Your colours are flames,
eating up the world to prove its own existence;
you are the living cinder on the streets’ ashes,
burning the one who seeks blindly
and warming the one who knows you;
you are the glowing smoulder at the office,
spreading sparkles all over wildly
and melting all that’s not made of steel;
then, you blaze in the empty room,
eating up your own flames,
an ocean of flowing lava’s
inside your cavity,
inside my heart.
I built the walls, burnt the bridges,
scorched the land, searched the witches,
ruptured the nerves, devoured the preserves,
starved the body, tortured the mind,
riped out the tongue, blinded the eyes,
left none behind, let none comeaforth,
I am alone, only of a sort;
still the enemy is knocking, mocking,
wherefrom I cannot flee
and I just can’t…
Warmth fulfills this little cabin –
once again, it’s pleasing to live in;
my body, mind and heart
are enlivened by your art.
I feel guilty to live, I feel guilty to feel,
I feel guilty to fill in, I feel guilty to leave,
I feel guilty to be rich, I feel guilty to be in need,
I feel guilty to forbid, I feel guilty to reach
While feeling innocent in all and each.
All what you call that might be happiness
have been none just repeating shakedowns –
and this reddish fruit you call a mere edginess
is just being my only color in my grey breakdowns.
I walked out from others’ life
out of love and care;
isn’t it time to dare
loving myself just like others?
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.
How I envy you all
Who can just ignore me,
Delete me from sites or apps,
Block my number and WhatsApp,
And see my face on Facebook no more
While I am glued, imprisoned with myself;
Not like you, I need to face me daily – again
And again feeling pity, disgust, nuisance, hate,
And weirdness, waiting eagerly my disappearance.