The Fragrance of Love (A szerelem illata)

Playing With The Wind (Játék a széllel)

A sweeping wind soaking everything
And drying its time-bandages on my back.
I’m undecided between dream and reality.
Thought is treading with a planet pack.

The wind can start without being blown.
We have the ideal buried deep inside,
The Lord will save us from drowning in sin,
I can see hope on new hope crucified.

Smarting, dismembered, live memories.
They drip their sticky  honey on my spirit,
They paint my black trails with starlight breeze.

The magic of sand projects me into space.
You could be my safe shelter. The wind
Brings you back, but you never reach my face.

It’s Snowing in the Bower (A lugasban hull a hó)

Sitting in a bower,
With the hand of silence
Squeezing my throat.
The moment is a squirrel,
Would like to gambol
But can’t
In the deep snow.

Sitting in the bower
Like someone left
In the garden by solitude
After the lights were turned on.
Would like to go inside
But can’t
In the deep snow.


From the SonnetCycle:

1. (I’ll say It Softly and Only if You Will)

I’ll say it softly and only if you will
allow this fiery ray of summer night,
a whiff of long-gone figures in flight;
only the oars of memory can till

the ether waves of space where dreary cares
can grab you by the arm like a highwayman
to frisk you and rob you of all it can
while mystic trills break through the tears

in the fence of mist, and hog-tied thought
struggles under fidgeting hills, over-wrought,
offering live, white meat and booty to loot,

desires found in an unwrapped surprise,
things to which my mind cannot give rise;
my love is here to love you and not stay mute.