A keresés eredménye

Ode to Eros

Eros, Cupid, Love, little elvish God
With whom we all play!
Playing we injure ourselves,
Injuring ourselves we revel,
If we laugh we'll soon cry,
When we barely cry we laugh . . .
Already, turned away from the reverse,
Equally we turn him,
We torture him like how he tortures us,
We descend to the recesses of creation . . .
 
Wee giant!
I dreamed, or I did not dream,
Who represented you smiling and small
Who from Hercules the mace
Does not weigh like how your infant hand weighs,
Nor destroys your fury
How your smile of child
Hurts us?
 
In your light arrows
In your dapper pennants
That the poets
And juvenile love-sick peoples sing of,
What mighty opium and lethal liquors,
What marshes of mud and what rages,
What blonde and spiny garlands,
What abyssal labyrinths of roads!
 
Face mask of silk and of velvet
Beneath which the gaze glimmers, the mouth smiles,
What ambiguous or mute gaze,
What tormented mouth
Won't you have beyond you
In the masquerade?
 
Father of Cruelty and of Piety,
Son of Crime and of Beauty,
What infant will you be, that, as soon as you Age
To the Icaruses you oppose the same astral wall,
And the Lazaruses you sustain the remnants of that table
In which the same thirst is always drunk,
The same hunger
Is always eaten?
 
Nocturnal divinity
That encircles you with roses,
Supreme masked fury
That the door opens from the sky . . . wide open
Upon the empty blackness of a cave,
That the crystal casket in the handsome hands
You come to offer to the thirsty mouths
And you spill blood from the crystal casket,
What do you have in the end, at the bottom of the cave
Always sealed off from mortals
Eternal death . . . nothingness,
Or eternal life?
 

New epitaph for a poet

On the naked earth, the wings spread,
They seeded,
They bloomed.
If someone may pass there
That has the keen sense of smell and the gift of good spirit,
They would say that that dead man is a love:
It blooms and it smells well.
 

Loose pearl

Without me expecting it,
That tear rolled
On the cold and aridity of my face.
It rolled so slowly . . . ,
It opened a road down to my mouth.
Thirst! what I have is thirst!
I collected it again in my lips and I drank it.
Like how in a wall
The flower that the morning covers with dew rejuvenates
In the mouth it sung me,
Brief like that tear,
This brief elegy.
 

Epitaph for an old damsel

From palmetto and chapel,
Whichever one commands the tradition,
Erect, there she shall
Be cast to the ground.
From a rosary in her hand,
She fought heroically
Against the vile temptation
That begs us for meat and devours our souls.
Secret, anxious, august, disgruntled
Inside of her seamless tunic,
She pleated all to hunger,
At last she died to thirst,
In her futile heroism.
Bugs! penetrate the poor useless body!