What brought you back at this time
when the color of grey is not grey anymore
when even the thought of death is not appealing
when the parade of dreaming silence became enjoyable?
What could even make your voice to reach me
when the sound of silence tortured my soul
when my ears are forced not to hear
when my heart is a numb pump?
What would make me to answer after all
after all I learnt how not to reply
after all our imaginary talk
after all the self-hate?
What makes me reply is the love,
beyond the pain.
It’s just a hidden source
of an ever self-denial,
There’s been a cat, heard night to night
screaming in a great pain;
it broke dreams in the middle of the night,
haunting and fading again.
Its tearing meow burned up windows
and filled the darkness from far;
once shouting from the neighboring roofs,
once at your window been ajar.
None has seen it, but all could hear its cry
as well as the angry shooing
that the demonic creature always left behind,
growing, dying and anewing.
By the daylight, there was no any trace,
people could barely imagine
how a diabolic sound could bear any race
else of an underground Jinn.
Before people could even think about it,
what made the cat such unease;
the ground took its tongue and threw it
into a night of ceaseless peace.
You made me a child. Vainly I was growing
thirty crying winters over the agony.
I can neither walk, nor I can sit around.
My limbs are dragging me, pushing toward you.
I hold you in my mouth, like a dog hold its puppy
and I’d like to flee from strangling.
The years that have been broken by my destiny,
are raining upon me in every moment.
Feed me, look – I’m hungry. Cover me – I’m cold.
I’m stupid – give your mind to me.
Your absence is piercing me, like the wind through a household.
Tell me – There’s no reason to fear.
You looked at me and I dropped everything.
You listened to me and my voice got stuck.
Dare not to let me be so recklessly uncaring;
letting myself live and die by myself amok!
My mother froze me out – I was on the doorstep –
I would hide inside me, I couldn’t tho –
beneath me stone and above me emptiness.
Oh, how I could sleep! I’m rattling at you.
Many people live who are insensitive like me,
still, their eyes let tears out.
I love you very much, since even me
I could really love myself with you.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Gyermekké tettél(1936).
I’ve been in an acid rain.
From the start.
Every drop falls.
Through my coat.
Through my face.
Into the heart.
I’ve been sitting in a pit.
It rains sadness.
Every drop laughes.
Into my ears.
Into my soul.
I’ve been waiting death.
I can’t wait.
In the years.
In the pains.
How long they last.
As my heart is still ribbed and robbed,
As my hand is still penly dropped –
By words, down on the paper,
By thoughts from a downer layer…
While enjoying life as a deadly drug,
While doing time by a languid shrug –
By God, I swear I am innocent;
By hazard, I may be evil or a saint.
As my hearten self is in daily oblivions,
As my drowsy heart-beats discharge ions –
By the heart’s sudden energetic spurts,
By them, last the lifer’s hurts…
While even my philosophy is dying,
While my old emotions leave their hiding –
By remembering Rome, a never seen land,
I wish for all its roads I know, to a dead end.
To what, all of us are ever subservient,
Sith, being inspired is being alive on its own;
Letting the soul to inspire the fresh reasons of life,
What-without, all of us are just junks of empty organs.
What is taken by the reciprocal goal
Of living for living, looking for no end, no beginning;
As plants, animals and we humans struggle in its vicissitudes,
The essence and quintessence all of this is living with a goal.
What is life itself, but not on its own
Since only an inspired, breathing soul can feel;
Feeling the love of the poet, the zeal in a painting,
By meaning of every day is an art, and art is the drug of every day.
What once is the meaning of life,
After a glance, the most painful drug a man can taste,
Brought by the sweetest venom of a woman’s play and demand,
Killing and enlivening by itself and by its drinkable, smokable antidotes.
What is fear’d, but inspires us the most,
Its single existence urges us to seize the day;
Seize it by love and art while we are still here, living,
Seize it by seeking inspiration in every moment of not being dead.
The sweetest dream
seems a mere nightmare,
The yesterday aches
by all pain of the future,
The present things
remain as they were,
All the disasters
of the news are neutral.
opiates or other drugs,
None of them
makes you feel alive,
But they may help
to forget all the goods,
Before the peace,
in form of death, arrives.
Bite on the lips
that get kiss only by ruth,
Stay in silence
on all the fake conversation,
you’re asleep or it’s the truth,
Then, enjoy the curse
of being a poet.