A keresés eredménye

Homage to Life

It’s good to have chosen
A living home
And housed time
In a ceaseless heart
And seen my hands
Alight on the world,
As on an apple
In a little garden,
 
To have loved the earth,
The moon and the sun
Like old friends
Who have no equals,
And to have committed
The world to memory
Like a bright horseman
To his black steed,
 
To have given a face
To these words - woman, children,
And to have been a shore
For the wandering continents
And to have come upon the soul
With tiny strokes of the oars,
For it is scared away
By a brusque approach.
 
It is beautiful to have known
The shade under the leaves,
And to have felt age
Creep over the naked body,
And have accompanied pain
Of black blood in our veins,
And gilded its silence
With the star, Patience,
 
And to have all these words
Moving around in the head,
To choose the least beautiful of them
And let them have a ball,
To have felt life,
Hurried and ill loved,
And locked it up
In this poetry.
 

The raindrop

I am looking for a raindrop
which just fell into the sea.
It shone the brightest
as it sped right down,
for only it among all raindrops
had the strength to understand
that saly water would dissolve
its great sweetness forever.
 
And so I am scouring the sea
and the alerted waves.
I am searching to please
this brittle memory
lying in my exclusive custody.
 
But try as I might, some things
lie even out of God's reach,
despide His good will
and the mute help
of the sky, the waves and the air.
 
Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

The stopover in Portugal

The port dries out its whiteness at the terraces
where the wind struggles,
the pink houses under an embracing sun
smell of algae and street.
 
The women of the sea, baskets full of
iridescent fishes on their heads,
exhibit under the loud season's sun
the celebration of the depths.
 
The shrill foliage has exceeded green
under the flood of light,
the captive roses
have broken through the iron railings.
 
The morning pleasure of shops open
to the summer by the sea
and green windows surrendering
to the sky, shutters wide open
 
flows toward the square where bystanders stagnate
until the orange trees' shadow
fills out like in the semblance of a dial
where the sweet noon rumbles.
 
Do whatever you want with my translations. I'm not rich enough to sue you anyway.

A Poet

I do not always go alone to the bottom of myself.
I drag more than one live being with me.
Can those who are made to enter my cold caves
ever be sure of coming out again, even for a moment?
 
Like a sinking vessel, I pull passengers and sailors
pell-mell into my night. I darken their cabins,
I extinguish the light in their eyes.
I make friends with great depths.