Leaves of Hungarian trees
drop and fall off in my heart:
in leaf and in full bloom, this
is the way I have to die.
I came from Sylvania,
from the home of the forests:
didn’t pray but foliated,
and entreated god rarely.
I poured flowers all over,
bloomed for worse and for better:
others were bearing their fruit,
I have blossomed forever.
I am old and a pagan
and still don’t say a prayer:
do keep falling to your death
Hungarian leaves and flowers.
Translated by: Maria Bencsath