To the 50th anniversary of Attila Gérecz’s death
To survive someone else’s death
is as impossible as to survive
your own. The one who hopes for more
is going then point behind himself.
Where did we leave those still alive? -
my mirror finds only unknown faces.
Would there be just one among them
offering himself to be touched by me?
Whom this fate invoked a poem,
would he discover where that sickle moon
had cut away from his own soul
what he did have way back in his childhood?
Klauzal Square is bare tonight.
From word to word the silence is spreading.
Don’t look here for the sot of glare,
bright light, behind the Sun you shall see it!
What, don’t you see it? … Featherless,
who’s going to redeem you but yourself?
How far do you – broken ridge-arched,
lonely hill range move from the poem?
Translated by: Maria Bencsath