The mornings depart
and arrive without you.
Your spirit flashes now and then
on the hem of a sky foundering in light.
Sentences fog the steep slopes
of long-gone lands,
staring into nothing,
fatigued by now.
Acacia trees have again invaded the riverbank,
the injured in the autumn storm are
cared for by new tender winds.
Last night the neighbor
was not drilling through the wall,
in the abandoned room the bed is empty,
the place of lovemaking is open,
the painted wooden pillow is cold but still
buzzed by an antique dream like before;
joy would like to sneak back, but there’s
no one to ferry it to the other shore.
God Never Wrote to a Mortal as Touchingly Sunshine copies a text on my desk.
Every day and on purpose,
to see if I can unravel the words.
God never wrote a letter of such gravity to a mortal.
Exorcism is not expected of me,
I’m supposed to be the way I was
created: curious and diligent.
Earthly treasures are out,
I am to seek the meaning of life in the arts.
(Loving poetic lines, I am the slavish lover of love!)
Fear is not good for my mental and moral health.
I’m to be like a volcano
and eject good and bad into the sky,
I’m to get purified and thus empowered to purify.
But I was not asked to account for my faith.
And what for?
Those who believe will end up crucified.
Translations from the Hungarian By Paul Sohar