Mikor még bőven folytak a(z azidőtájt még cím nélkül álló) Beszámított veszteség antológia nyomdai munkálatai, Kántás Balázs egy hirtelen és gáláns ötlettől vezérelve, mintegy két nap alatt lefordította angolra a teljes szöveget. A fordítások végül technikai okokból kimaradtak a könyvből, azonban szerkesztőségünk, korábbi ígéretéhez tartva magát: elérhetővé tesz mindent az Online felületén. Fontos azonban megjegyeznünk, hogy mivel Kántás angol szövegei a könyv szerkesztésének egy korai szakaszában készültek, a versek sorrendje, elrendezése, mennyisége stb. terén mutatkozhatnak eltérések a nyomtatott és az itt közreadott változatok között, az átfedés nyilvánvalóan nem száz százalékos. Ilyen módon maradt végül lefordítatlanul a táv című vers is, amelyet a szerző (e sorok írója) így, egyfajta kiegészítéseként a Kántás-korpusznak (magánkontárkodását természetesen feltüntetve) saját fordításában mellékel az anyaghoz. Erre kérjük egyben a Kedves Olvasót is! Jelen közlés ugyanis egyben felhívás is, melynek keretében sajátos játékra invitálunk minden, vállalkozó kedvvel és megfelelő szintű angol nyelvi kompetenciával bíró Olvasónkat, hogy küldjék be, akár a szerkesztőség e-mail címére (tárgymegjelölés: “Beszámított fordítás”), akár ezen post alatt, a kommentárok között. A jobban sikerült angolításokat ebben a bejegyzésben (folyamatosan frissítve) közzétesszük. A fordítások, verziók és változatok megvitatására ugyancsak ajánljuk a bejegyzés kommentálási lehetőségeit. A fordítások beküldéséhez nem szabunk határidőt, az ötletes, eredeti munkák beérkezését folyamatosan várjuk.
A szó innentől – Kántás Balázs tolmácsolásában – a Beszámított veszteség antológia szerzőié.
Nyerges Gábor Ádám
STOLCZ ÁDÁM VERSEI:
While you are conscious,
can you explain it?
You can explain it.
That I lose my face because
of you, or because in my mouth
I am revolving
an amalgam filling.
By the way, don’t you know
to whom I have taken
such a big breath?
Now sign the cheque,
or a slap will sign your face and I
will plough the time on it with my own hands,
they will finally
draw down the good will
after themselves in your throat.
Can you explain it?
Why am I speaking
to myself even now?
Let us pretend
that I forget you, and when I am fumbling in my memories,
jump in and shout at me
that I cannot touch all of it
because I can be alone, but I should discipline myself,
because in myself I am not at home, anyway.
And you lock your glance on my hand.
The spring comes forth, and I glance back.
What did he leave there?
An incorrectly harmonised sense of shortage,
something that I left there.
Like a scar
or a fingerprint,
a material evidence
that someone annihilated
by the beginning of the investigation.
That is why I am now traceless,
I have no proof for the winter.
Solitude is lying in the
highest drawer of the conditional,
and my rustproof sense of humor,
according to the latest practice,
in the name of curbside collection.
And the wind had better think about
why he had to interrupt and
the cold quickly finishes
that fucking behaviour,
that it is nipping people,
and the bad weather either sits down
or it is to leave
the room at once…
But also the frost was once here,
and it will soon return.
If joys never come alone,
the winter will soon return accompanied by troubles,
and the knives are smiling in their hands.
An incorrectly harmonised sense of shortage,
the spring comes forth, and I glance back,
standing too far in time,
at the scaly-eyed white lion.
Walking under the sky, go in a way
that you know that you are going in a certain direction.
Here you can become stone without neck-tricks.
In the hunting area of freedom
you can shoot at all sorts of little and large animals, or even the lack
If your physical reality says a sensitive goodbye to you,
just go ahead informally.
You do not have to search for it, the
Sodomes and Gomorrahs will find you.
Now only you control and see
the places and circumstances.
It is a season of freedom.
In your comfort you do not even know
how many echoes are talking to you at the same time
and how many hundred times these little bit
handicapped words visit you.
They are always ready to
write a whole mockery book based on you.
The cover of the sky sometimes
humbly lurches aside,
this time it is as if
some light became liberated
For a little while this time
– being thoughtless –
it happens that instead of watching
I see something.
I see birds becoming metal
and lions becoming stone.
– from here to eternity –
Directly beside you in a woman’s shape
pain is lying,
she puts her hand on you lest you should fall apart,
slowly lift up the form from you,
lest you should be absorbed
in the sweet sewers
of the bottles!
She operates you out of love
like some alien material,
your best friend the repose
spits at you only for the sake of
and it leans against your facial muscles,
they are trembling
like an old barrier
just for the sake of your health
hospitalises you for a while,
very near to the city
where you have been sitting for twenty years
looking at the clear windows of homes
and from them
just like from interrogating lamps
the reality that you belive to be suppled
very skilfully kicks into your face.
I feel the embraces
in which one is bound into flames.
I know that we are revolving around instincts
just like deceived fishes around the clench.
I feel the weight of bodies, if there is beauty in someone’s stature
and he or she will soon order.
Because I have to see the sky opening up
and speech rippling from it, now only for two-hundred HUF
per one and a half litre.
But the joys are still said in a foreign language.
However, the long smiles burn back
and creep back like flames into the bonfire,
the rolling limbs,
and the sky clears up so much that even God disappeares.
After he graved an
inscription “I was here 2008”
into the faces.
And like a fruit venod the kilos,
I feel the weight of the bodies,
and out of sheer habit
I feel the embraces.
TARCSAY ZOLTÁN VERSEI:
with spicy fumes behind me
the sand of the shore is burning
and the fleet of gulls flies here
and sometimes cool clamours foam
odour of salt in the fog
the chalk-fine gravel is
dryly smoking they are screeching
with bloody bucks turning their necks
I am chewing salty sands tomorrow
vultures buried by milk-white
powder-fog are digging me
in a cool pit beside corpses
and with its spicy fumes
the desert finally closes
In the stomach of the whale
today it was tolled the fog is pealing
you are suffocating in the white palms
under the water you spit it out
you are bored at beauty and ugliness
the whale swallowed and digests you
you are glistening the acid dissolves you
you walk around the spiral staircase
it is more blubbery in the angles
towards the end the fog falls down
the fish smell saturates everything
in the cool you slip towards the light
the dry blade chops up
the tolled – another
You only can be the hero in my poem.
But you I do not know or understand.
How do you enter to ape life and death
in the poem, and to know and to forget?
I can’t see you, you’re voiceless and nameless,
you’re just a pronoun, shaped of language, nothing.
You hush faithfully, while his spoiled linen
the self throws before you cheerfully laughing.
You bear it silently when into your ear
an imitated voice’s false phrase yawns.
You are never the “one”, only the “other”.
Yet you rip the veil off me in this way:
you let me speak simply until I run down,
since you’re alpha and omega, always.
On a Rhyme’s Tombstone
Today the word has no colour
in vain did they search for the odour,
laziness killed imagination’s vigour.
In vain, we have no armour,
the sky submerges in languor,
nothing silences the clamour,
night is endless, time makes us no favour,
we are fools, believing in the good old valour,
for your era you should not die in tremor.
Look, how deserts the final river,
and how rhymes drop from the paper.
God on Holiday
i am watching what is happening
pour water into hell
put my hand under the angels’ skirt
implant a human brain in the worm
i steal the horse’s legs
and turn back the pain
take the verb from the language
colour the voice
i change the thought for numbers
and leaning back for a day
i enjoy the new babel
in dolby surround
FEHÉR RENÁTÓ VERSEI:
Only New Year’s Eve
to K. Á.
“Thank you for the apples, I have also eaten from them…”
(Attila József’s letter to Flóra, December, 1937.)
If not else, it would have been worth a photo,
as I was murmuring you into boiled wine
at the museum while waiting …I would become
only an old blurb. Your grandchild will
not understand it. But we have no common picture,
and you did not send me apples. We have only
our pride, althought it is not mine, because
I was caressing you in myself, so that this time
we finish beyond the laughter,
pine needles in the eyes, although
it is not very holiday-like, but I have a present
for you, this month you get a new name:
I was thinking about “Miss December”,
but “Golden Shot” fits you much more.
(Is it no problem for you if I love you so much?
Although this is selfishness, I grasp life
like this – well, this was said to someone else
in a formal way, while they was waiting for the freight train.
I, with another method, always offend you,
because in Hollywood it is a good reason
for lovers that on the next day in the bed
they greet each other with an orange juice.)
And for today the exact program was arranged,
certainly, between the two holidays I played back
all of the dialogues, like a barrel-organ,
my aunt baked it for you, a cake,
let my books remain at yours,
take a few dishes from the upper wardrobe,
and a left you a message written in the snow
in the garden. Of the film whose text
both of us know by heart, a farewell sentence was made.
To our dinner the tocsin is tolling.
We eat a mess of pottage with rissoles,
I pour a glass of champaign, because
God tests me, the devil tests you further next year,
and I have no resolution, only this new year’s eve.
Your shirts slowly wear away,
but I do not have the shoulders to the leather coat.
The waist of the trousers is too wide, but they are too short.
I knew that Attila József is
to be cited in the mourning advertisement,
since then he has been in arm distance.
Our other idols are sill kept by the drawing pins.
When I first had beard,
my mum was browsing the manual for hours,
but since then I have used traditional razors instead of electronic ones.
We have released you in nearly every cases.
Only the library is angry.
They do not know that it was
not me who did not take the volumes back.
On Saturdays you got Melba cubes instead of flower,
but even if I could buy flowers somewhere,
then it they have same expiry date as you.
Eternal Sunday in Tihany
to Gy. P.
After the diagnose, the delegations
travelled here, to the corner.
I was pretending to be asleep, waiting for the confessions.
But behind the silence their problems were standing:
I have only three more cigarettes,
when is the meeting at night or
the computer is downloading porn at home.
Then slowly they stayed away.
They even took the dog, on the passanger’s seat
In the beginning I went to
the station, with the hard drinkers we
provoked the be-careful-at-the-platform voice.
Last week I was thrown out of the library
for good together with my cancer, because
the men’s magaizines are sticky because of me,
and allegedly it is forbidden to drink wine.
I often chat with the doctor via telephone,
about football and politics.
My childhood girlfriend from Keszthely cared about me,
visited me for a while, then she gave up.
Now I have bristle, but I do not spike anyone.
”the young ginger must be braised in
honey and wine of Tokaj”,
that is what I have to face in the cookbook.
Under the hazelnut tree a Dacia is rusting.
Stray cats are fucking each other in the snow
at the outhouse on the back.
On the gravel of the balcony we were imitating nothingness, panting.
Then she got bored, gave it up and after taking a shower disappeared.
For the leftover cake, I opened up the last beer
and finished alone what we had begun together.
The seat did not cool in the toilet by the time I got in,
but it was warm in a way different from home.
In the meanwhile the beetles had a ball on the ceiling,
they were dancing around the lamp and melt onto the lampshade.
I switched on the hot water
and soon I fell asleep in the bath
with my to in the spillway.
I was waken up by the continous ringing.
The lower neighbour probably had a leak.
I looked on mysfelf and I had deceptively
many details to the identification.
By then my toe completely whitened.
What He Called Cowboy-movie
He wrote his testaments upon the glazed tile in the bathroom.
On the next day, when he got sober, he crouched
in the bath nude and in the lack of actuality
he tried to wash away the whole.
On Sunday afternoons he sat me in his lap
and fell asleep on the chair,
although he did not seem to make such a retired-agreement.
In the meantime the western movie was taking place on ORF 1,
he called it cowboy-movie and wanted it to be our common experience.
Biting into my mouth, I tried to explore whether or not
the horses were the survivors, because then I am a horse.
In the last years, in dreams he was always shouting.
I did not now whether communists, Nazis or
some completely different people were chasing him,
but in the end, already together with him, I trusted their victory.
SMID RÓBERT VERSEI:
Melchior has com
There is that certain other in which I am dissolved once a year,
when two words strech to each other, bodies and the Material
that I am not able to form anymore, it slips from among my fingers
or it gets stuck under my nails and I am picking it on the bus
to annihilate the ruins of yesterdays.
I had so much secrets, we really for for words that were trapped
in the esophagus so much that next day I see you again on an crumpled advertisement,
but I feel that like this nothing leaks ot, because we are also carrying
our experiences in each other, that is why I happen to be unable to become free,
in vain am I trying to appreciate your absence.
Sometimes we are only lying and you ask me, but you would rather sleep
and would leave this whole bond for someone else, because you never explain
that behind what you say there is the kind of emotional excess weight to which
I once sat so near, as now I feel it on my skin that you are breathing or your head is under my a
arms, and my whole body is torpid, still I am sweating.
This is when I turn away, and although it is impossible to become free, I try to throw
the whole blanket on you, I take the pillow from under my head so that we should not be on the
same level, because it cannot go on like this, or at least why? it is impossible that you stir up
the sand and blow it into my eyes on the bed, and you do not even know about it, but if I switch
on the light and look into your eyes there are no taboos and inhibitions.
Of course, neither of us is able, but both of us know, do our best, the sun can also rise,
we can tumble a little in order to feel nostalgia and cover all doubts
that has ever been within me and you, in all of our misfired Wednesday afternoons,
since you chop all of my intentional ruins into further splinters every time you come up from the
subway, and now it is all the same whether my hand fits in your hand or in the trace of your slap.
We Not(,)Only Me
Daydreaming is the depraver of life
In my opinion, much worse if it comes true
Madame, please, everything is misunderstood,
I did not hang my coat on the hanger, and, my dear, I did not take my toothbrush to you,
and I did not brush anyone else, while I felt the absence, so I ask you not to call me,
or with a telegraph swish my well-known third mop of hair from the back.
And I eject the horizon of emotions out of myself if I can help others,
because this whole pardigm have always caused only troubles to me, and since You,
really You define me, as a separating self, here I lost everything, because you cannot
obtain what others can, You = Me, We not, only Me.
I cannot find the words, someone tore the whole lexicon into pieces before we reserved it;
or not really, they are there, but I am never brave enough to use them.
What are the though-splinters of the past crumbling with their golden hands? Because the fitting room is standing in front of me, curtain up and our scene (our common one), it was not so old-fashioned yet the cemetery, the cemetery, the knife, the closer, the knife, now it would be good if the first one had been with me, yes. The whole staircase crossed us, a common name ont he metal plate: We, not only Me.
Only as the test tube drops rolled down on the blind window, she bows to me whispering: there is no more place for the possible, I reply We-not-only-me, because yes, whenever we leave, and supposing that we still exists,
what will happen to us?
The moment is given only a few times, when I expect nothing of the other,
and just because her mere existence, without any intention or goal I am beside her,
so that I can take over a few objects once again from that mirror-forest that
is christened by the body emerging from the water, consacrating it.
And not anyhow, or all the same, if I cannot read the years on your sole, and I realise
only the stretch of the muscles hiding in your stomach, the repeated motion of my hand, that this little hope, or rather this little suspicious and awkward pleasure, as I carress your ribs,
or I eject on your breast all the uncertainty and cold from which you liberate me, if either this or that way, but you stay with me for the night. That undeserving silent nothing, I can collect only the warmth of your body, and mornings nothing remains but your print on my skin, or I ask you not to get dressed yet and you obey, because you subordinate yourself t me, because it is a must, because I wash away all my complexes related to you with my spittle.
If you throw down the pillows and you cannot get so far that I should not hear your thoughts
in my ear, I see that you listen, resist, my head aches, we have reached the mirror stadium, because it is you who embraces me, you refuse the pillars of your existence, dissolved in the Idontmind theory, let everything be realised that practice writes along our bodies.
The blank paper, the scéne where there is the absolute colonising desire
everywhere in the relationship between you and me.
Although sometimes you contradict all focalisms, these times I cannot preserve
my alienation submerging from deep within you that obsesses you in the elevator
as my sweat covers you accompanying you in the rhytm of your writing.
So that I never forget who I am, I need that other cutting into the paper, you get this tenderness only so that you exist and define me and your whole copula and pronoun serve me and you become a suborinated narrative under my textual body.
Yet I never register you,
all the same, it is impossible to accept your existence,
and I do not want to put all the words in the past tense,
and deep inside, you are right, the streets really might not have names.
TÖRÖK SÁNDOR MÁTYÁS VERSEI:
A puddle on the edge of the road
Why on earth are there a block of flats,
A Trabant, a tree and so many
Around and above it?
It makes the 30-year-old block,
The shabby tree, the rust-faced
Trabant, the hastening
The many thingies are all
Toning in it.
The road is
in the puddle.
anxious and instinctive
Because suddenly everything disappeared
when by her ice-sculptor gaze my
second-hand pacemaker went smash.
Suffocationg I switched on the lamp
and a lot of old thingies came to my hand
(the rainbow ball, the margaret island,
the foams of the danube melting into the sun)
all of them were waiting for the cleaining
with a smile, complacently giving
their place in the atrium to Life
that had not even arrived by then.
Bearing a thousand painful resignations
I was cleaning up and by the time everything
was shining I had ignited all the rest…
I am gazing at the ceiling.
You left a year ago.
The days are nearly whizzing,
I do not race against them anymore.
I bang at the floor angrily,
a tear rolls along my face and I fall asleep.
The morning light shines through the window
in order to say me goodnight.
An Incomplete Canary
My canary would fly
If it were not flattened
My eyes would look at you
If they did not become wild
The feeling in my heart
Within my squirming words
Is as amusing
As a flat canary
We are silent in the constraints of the lines,
that is, we have just departed.
So much that we do not even have to care
about the highway code – sometimes we brake
so that we should not get dizzy in the huge weekdays
and should not be bored like this, alone,
sometimes we glance into the mirror,
convinced that we still exist.
KÁNTÁS BALÁZS VERSEI:
In the iron lay
between two concrete blocks
a rootles eye
is searching for you.
Around the body
nominally belonging to the eye
a transparent straitjacket.
Throw a coin to
the hand swishing in the air,
and the concrete
gates open up.
the exile who dropped dead
yesterday: only within
We are glad to give
him cables, previously
written texts and
Press one more bottom
and the chains are dancing
in their complete existence.
They were nude
when the rubber gloves
stretched around them.
In their blunt yesterday-brains
a today-phrase was played, when
the granite melt into the asphalt.
A grey discotheque lamp
stuck in the plane flashed up, when
the their face-pring was gone with the wind.
Red effervescent tablets –
the moment’s water
In the background
voices in suits are
A pistol is fired,
while a glass eye glances
at us for the last time.
The Wall Does Not Answer
In his prefabricated life
he is counting button-minutes.
His mouth is mechanically moving,
among his teeth
he is grinding dates.
The wall does not answer.
A few more words,
and the jackhammer
PALÁGYI LÁSZLÓ VERSEI:
my only own gesture
when the nerve flips
my index finger for a while
i am not only a trick
sometimes i make a trip to frankness
i only want that the number
should not be person
and i do not hang on it
the sentences are ready
i want a little agreement
mainly the first readiness
is very catatonic
but if deliberately it is
also then and not really, because
it is blemished by my causing
that would be when i did not now that it is –
i am speaking about neurosis,
can you hear it, neurosis
when you have no idea you know what that is –
i am speaking of many things
can you hear it, many things
when the past possesses man
(its first symptom is memory) –
i am speaking about death,
can you hear it, death
real poets are silent since the poem
like this says much more
i do my best to fudge –
i am speaking about this and that
can you hear it, this and that all the time
personality disorder is like
when your foot is waggling in the shoe
or when the shoe is waggling on your foot freely
you erect your toe
the sinews tighten on your ankle
it is dangerous to submerge
your gaze in lake water
the eye is the mirror of the soul like this
everything can become water mirror
within a moment oh you can see
that the shoelace helps no more
there is no relation
between man and animals,
there is no relation
between dog and wolf,
there is no relation
between your fist and your palm,
there is no relation
between the trees and the paper under the text,
there is no relation
between the letters “a” and “b”
there is no relation
between a poem and a poem
there is no relation
between the letters “a” and “a”
there is no relation
between orphanage and orphanage
EVELLEI KATA VERSEI:
I Stand Out
my beautiful blue love broke
as i tried to take him out to the garden
now where shall i get another
i shine like the moon the dogs bark after me
as the road slips along
the water spreads on the sheet
however far i go from here
i cannot straighten the earth
i am bored at the evening the sterile shadowlessness
if only the foliages did not greet me so many times
crinkling his forehead there is coming
a cherry tree with its evil spikes erecting
in vain are the night’s fingers crying
all the strong are crying in vain
now it is time to strangle together with them
i am also glad let me confess
i take my virtues from
the display window to the cellar i only lave myself
there to listen anyway something happens
god’s son (?) i am cowardly and pious
yet i am not afraid of fish
we are related that is why finally
do not eat each other
A Superfluous Attempt
I gave them what I could give.
The earth opens under my feet.
God is a scientist, no doubt of it:
for his own son he digs a pit.
Lack of Oxygen
Your purple-orange laughter tears me apart
a piano’s music cuts into silence trembling
after your stubborn-green desperate fingers
the blood and the marrow are wildly shed
bile poison bitterness hatred
the torture of centuries is flinging on your lips
around dawn my dear servant faitful lap-dog
the howling pain transforms me
You can see that we are suffering together
I who see and know and bear and you who revolt
you can hope even if you are disappointed here is
your last lair the humility with us perhaps
once you understand and then we will be good
But the trees has already surrounded the house
On its rocks blue, stern evening falls:
the ship-forest swings like a swarm of birds.
The whiteness of temples flutters and burns.
The sea calls me softly and greenly. I give in.
NYERGES GÁBOR ÁDÁM VERSEI:
it creeps in
nothingness creeps in your cheek
and it hardens
like incorrectly fastened similes
on collapsing love poems
then the closing morpheme
of a whole life clicks down
it falls down like this god-knows-where it will stop
accompanies you through years
you call it your younger or elder sister
you name it friendship and love
and thy sweet forbidden fruit
you form her as pygmalion
and reshape it time and again
you caress it with your glances while
it is sleeping, eating, chatting and panting
you fondle it with cell movements
you hide it in your own depth
and you get used to it
you notice it in its existing that
it has not been existing for long
and by the time it would non-exist then you
should desire the desire with too much strength
from top to bottom broken
and touched to the bone
then you crack every minute
althouht still hurts through your retina
its sacral shilouette
although some sammy resemblances
still itch back
at last you ought to realise that you do not miss it anyomore
Touch in a Way
– little national song –
don’t look up yo see we get soaked
the ground is bad under our feet
we are fishing in dried waters
all the rises have lied down
let us pay attention carefully
the past and the future is not little
do not mourn for our mourn
(it is feint spared for the winter)
the treasury is an empty nylon sack
and we have no leftover bread
the most of it we vomitted and spat out
those who would give us we harm
rather sniff, touch in a way that
we should believe that wee can see
In memory of Endre Lovrity
I. Requiem, cessation
never again do I go up to the fourth floor.
since this empire is good only for cessation
all glory fades like this
as life melts into eternity with gossip-speed
we think to leave
such periods time and again
if recognition had come earlier
we might have got through with less childhood (released before time for good conducti)
and now this poem would not exist
the spirit of wasted moments hoots from a jamming hooded dream
not as if we were weeping for ourselves.
(dying and resurrecting) mis-consciences do their best to sweat at least one operating commonplace into the world:
the lack is by definition according to the present knowledge of sciences is not an area that can completely be covered by poetry.
I hated to creep in the bunker when that slippery ice-lack lived in it
and by the beggion of my limping lines the voice will somewhere be mixed down from the prefigurtion even the movements wait for a little while
the more comme-il-faut enemies try to show some mercy
one minute of terror.
notorius, harsh vacuums are clattering a rough requiem
grotesquely into careless little lives
otherwise I do not know
whether it matters
but as I glance around here I would not securely state
that everything goes on
even if it goes, we do not mind it anymore.
unfortunately and thanks god
we have the time.
II. Danse macabre
let me dropdead if Zeus did not smile in the same way
following the pattern of hundred-percent elements of shampoos
the timelessly unchanging mixture of
wisdom, strength, humour and nobility
(based on an ancient and secret receipt like Unicum)
feeling ashamed for the things pronounced and too sly to be pronounced of others
(as for my own things, for them I was unable-to-say-a-word pale-and-frightened-recognising
very few memories are whirling inside me
distrusting it yet experiencing that the process operates helter-skelter
as distorting as making me happy the fact
that the very eager dead can speak to
the still remembering living without
tables dancing danse macabre
several of my portraits
(rather mockery drawing or caricatures)
yet he guards it
or rather he pales or covers
that should have been preserved
instead you see
the troublesame, fabricated
memories searching you leave
leaving everything behind
in the depth of the shelf
for raunchy words that
were already violated by time.
IV. More and more heavy
going to school for ever
even when one is very mature
ritually bowing our head at the reception
washing our hands in the acerbic toilets
blessing people from the window
to balding trees
only the gist falls out somewhere
from the more and more heavy bag even waning
it is like a city dug out
and the nostalgia falling on it
like above Carthage
the one-meter-high layer of ash
I wipe away a moment on the clock
knowing that I do not have to register
time or faces anymore
and the pain leaking out will evidently dryed
by some indolent and menial c
circumstances: ring sign
we were not so very
we were rather cowardly and blind
I was never alone
now I still feel lonely
I inherited it.
walking on the street someone else is walking inside me
becoming the man I who I should become
I hold my bag as I saw it from him
sometimes bowing my head – bravely also in his name
I was redeem and I let it happen
and for a few days I have not shaved myself
because someone else’s beard is growing upon me
And she says how cheerfully
the man residing in the opposite side lives
on whose terrace the sun
always shines and has a job
a wife and a car two little children
aa cat a dog and money
and fame and smile and existence
and inside and outside carefreely and
healthily and wonderfully and well.
Once I saw her from the window
around 10.45 in the night
in the semi-darkness on the gauntly
creaking floor kneeing trembling crying
weeping praying that finally could come
(Nyerges Gábor Ádám fordítása)
this is so
sitting here and staring at the monitor overwoven with smileys of all colours
and thinking that without you it really doesn’t make sense
and that I miss your hand = how sensible we are today
while the programs are freezing around you one by one
i have a growing hunch
that we die too someday