I’ve seen my own death
an infinite time,
I’ve seen my own life
an infinite time;
The escape of myself
that I can belong
My incapacities form
this cruel reality,
my emptiness forms
this cruel reality;
All I’ve lived with
all I’ve served
I’ve seen my own life
I’ve seen my own death
Time has been no more just a deception.
Where are the uncountable years on chain?
How to count the unceasable pain?
What measure can contain all the knowledge
of one’s griefing observation
on the self and what imprisons it?
The world is no more than a foolery.
All the pain grew shield on our skin, still..
Still, the scars are under our scales;
they are graved into the heart –
no teeth, no claws can defend us from;
this ruthless form is meaningless.
Life is a ceaseless demolition.
There’s no defense from this dark magic;
it creates spears and useless scales against,
then some wizardry chains us in caves
because we burnt the bridges, burnt the gates,
but weren’t we created for that?
Monsters give birth to monsters;
they lay their eggs,
spread them with their acids,
deface them with claws –
and when they leave the hive,
suffocating from terror,
facing a toxic world
that can’t surpass their own..
..their own toxic pumping
in their very heart
full of scars;
yes, we are just monsters.
Carressing with paining hands,
breathing with heavy lungs,
standing up with an aching back,
loving with a broken heart;
what else absurdities do you have for me?
Under a confused mind of a cloudy meander,
I was sitting where two tempests clashed,
The colours were drought by the blender-
Of a blinding light as if a camera flashed.
Under the gravity of the grass on the ground,
I amazed miraculously how the sky split,
As my lamb-like soul split years around-
On a play-ground of an o-childish spirit.
Under a mysterious frozen fragment of time,
I saw my prisoned prism in the height,
Held by a bird, a bird.. a bird that I’m-
Surely, my soul will never see the light.
Under the brightening crack on the darkness,
I was the white dove with a shot-spot,
Bleeding out in a dark ink of numbness-
With the body as a soul-less cold splotch.
Nobody’s raising me up anymore,
I weighed into the mud.
Don’t leave me sole like before,
accept your son, God.
Get me together, Forming Sky,
and what I’m forced to do;
to confess, to deny,
help me through all my due.
You know I’m just a child in my heart –
don’t reject me like I did with you;
don’t tear my view apart,
let me see some heaven, too.
I – being done already
borne with your burdens –
am standing in the shade, ready
to watch over my curtains.
Inspire all whom I love
to have a better heart on me.
Look at my case from above
in high time this world had me.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Nem emel föl” (1937).
The world is swirling to a point returning –
The hardship is harsh and boredom dooms,
The queue of people is full of loons,
Your heart is chained by the world’s harpoons.
Where’s the limit and where’s the end?
Where’s the real and the ones pretend?
Where’s the right and where’s the trend?
Will you be able turning?
As you are able learning –
You kill the voices, bring some noise,
Ignore yourself and other girls and boys,
Ignore the world that kills the joys.
But who pays the price for that act –
Facing again the painful fact
That you are just chained in a new contract,
And we’ve been only adjourning…
Curse the living since you are not yet dead,
Respect the dead since this is what they had.
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.
The smallest drop of freedom
can make a slave for ever dreaming,
the smallest drop of happiness
can make a sad one for ever grieving,
and the smallest drop of love
can make the soul for ever living
in dreams and griefs.
My childhood’s broken reality haunts past, present and future;
dark traumas turned my fate to undergo on torture –
searing and healing, then searing and healing, and never relieving;
all my bad omens keep ceaselessly repeating,
sealed into my soul from the very first till the latest hour:
I’m happy for those whom I could save from this terribly cursed power
to being able seeing the cures of all the bad times
that themselves curse my every hope all the times –
a whispered ending that’s never ending: we are all alone,
whispered, but it’s waving through all the wall
that could separate a broken reality’s dope
from a seeding soil so real that it’s even deceiving, saying: there’s a hope.