Sándor Weöres: Homecoming (Hazatérés)

Avid concern fills my mother’s eyes.
Deformed charges in my father's -
yet, for my homecoming, he brought up
his old vintage bottle of wine.

Old and sick is our trusted dog,
skin and bones . . . a pitiful sight.
He will be buried quite soon, I know,
right on the alfalfa hillside.

At dinner, a few words - then silence.
And that silence is yelling loud.
As if a platter heaping of food
was crying after tasty salt.

Mother looks at me, then my father:
is he the one who used to be?
And up in the sky, like in olden times,
the moustached moon is waiting.

We used to play much with our dog
a lot like some wild impostors!
Now, when I am caressing his head
he responds with wriggles and growls.

Why are we not able to enjoy
when food and wine are delicious?
Why are all of us here on this Earth
eternal strangers together?

Why can I not weep, why can’t I cry
seeing my parents as they age
without gently caressing their face
as used to do in bygone days?

The ivy-crypt is going to hide
then three deceased unknown bodies.
And up in the sky, like in olden times,
the moustached moon is waiting.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath