She will come so late if she she comes once,
So late and so privately
That even the evening wouldn’t dare to see the seance
Neither the road she crossed quietly…
She will come so late and privately.
I had already turned off the lights
And while darkness covers me sadly,
In the depths of my loneliness, I stifle my sighs
From the bitter heat of settling,
While darkness covers me sadly.
And when there is no more question in my eyes
And the light of all memories went out,
Maybe you are just thinking about me in silence,
Who is slowly being brought to me by the road …
When all memories went out.
Maybe she’ll knock on my door too,
She doesn’t say her name, enters wordlessly,
By then, sorrow will wear me off half dead though
And I’m not waiting anyone to come carelessly,
When she enters the door wordlessly.
She comes in the quiet moment of the evening,
As a belated, long-awaited illusion,
She will be lovely thinking
Magic words to listen to in amusement,
As a belated, long-awaited illusion.
Maybe she will wake me up in the dark
Her word, which will be softer than gloom,
And we would stay there quietly, speechless, stark,
Not even knowing who we were before that room
With silently around us the gloom …
Translated from the Hungarian translation of the Portugese poem of Cecilia Meireles, “ARRÓL, AKI EGYSZER ELJÖN”.
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.
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?
Every species developed their means
to perceive the surrounding
as well, every individual has its own design;
the birds crossing the sea,
the fish below where we can’t see,
the bugs dancing in ultraviolet.
So did I inherit and developed mine
of sensing this magnitude
to end my own design;
the trucks, the train, the cars,
the cigs, the drugs, the scars,
the heights’ and depths’ draw.
It’s ceaselessly pulling me hard,
sometimes I’m running
sometimes I accept this design;
pulling against, pushing for it,
crying – numbing, it remains horrid,
being in a force without control.
Like a veteran Samurai
when you choose me
so keep that in mind.
I know no else than fight
for the survival of mine
so I can live this life.
My life knows no past
no lies of good
I am just fighting blind
in no time,
so I can exist for fight.
My enemies are shadows
where I live
in a world of shades
so I can’t go blinded.
My smile isn’t a smile
I am in war
all is hit and evade
for my survival,
so I can die just alike.
I had no viewing
on the children of my age
for a while
was the only knowledge
I had as a lie
While else were playing
I’ve been on a stage
for a while
I’ve been acting
pretending at a young age
that everything’s fine
has been an ugly offstage
ending in a cry
I learnt disappearing
while others had living image
from their bloodline.
A world has shattered and I bear its shards;
they are so painfully aching –
though I see no else cure than my lost crystal
that without, there’s no reason
whether I’m waking or sleeping.
Marching among people,
Sitting at hollow places,
Hoping this indifference is gone
Seeing no other faces
Just my old soul in a tea of Lipton –
I’m still young, but too feeble.
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.
Beetle step on your open eyes. Green
velvet mold relax your breasts.
Look at the loneliness you are sending me.
Grind your teeth; eat up your lips.
Your face should fall off like dry sand,
the dear. And if you’d caress me,
since in place of your lap there’s an empty land:
your working fingers should be tied off by weed.
See, this is you, these are disgusting wishes.
Still, you wouldn’t flutter if people were
gathering silently to see like around witches:
who made me so evil.
Whom are you grabbing now? If you give birth to your son
it will be his pleasure to spin around,
you blink at him while it gets surrounded one by one
with full-length alligators around.
I lie motionlessly on my back, on the bed,
I see my eyes: you look at me with them.
Die! I already wish so wordlessly the end
that I might think I am going to die in it, damn.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Magány”(1936).