Sándor Weöres: Self-portrait (Önarckép)

My friend, you want to tell me that you know me,
look at my room: you will not find ornaments
there that I had chosen myself; open my closet:
no characteristic items there.

My beloved and my dog, they both know my caresses
but don’t know me. My worthless musical instrument
is used to the hills and dales of my hand
but cannot tell about me either.

Yet, I am not hiding – I just don't really exist.
I act and suffer like everybody else,
but my deepest existence is nonexistence.

My friend, I do not have secrets.
I am transparent like glass – and for this reason
how can you imagine that you can see me?

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: The Lindens Are All in Bloom (A hársfa mind virágzik)

The lindens are all in bloom,
the siskins they all sing,
the leaves soak in the rays,
but your heart falls asleep.

The girls open up to you,
like jewelry boxes -
you don’t even turn to look,
spiders have webbed your mood.

Your only wish - to have faith,
serve the Lord in Heaven,
cast off all the vanities,
wear only a hair-shirt.

The lindens are all in bloom,
the siskins they all sing,
the leaves soak in the rays,
but your heart falls asleep.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

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

Sándor Weöres: Eternal Moment (Örök pillanat)

What you don't trust to crumbling stone:
design in the atmosphere.
There are sometimes moments in life
that become distant from time,

what the stone does not want to guard,
protects it in treasured fists,
does not have a future or past,
itself is eternity.

Like some fish after it had brushed
the bather's thigh then slipped by -
so you may feel the presence of 
God within you at times:

half memory in the present,
later it is like a dream.
And already before your death
you taste the eternity.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: At An Early Age 1936 (Az élet elején 1936)

The bluish fog of my dawn is fraying.
Precocious loneliness of childhood,
sepulchral aimlessness in the void yawning,

          oh, where are you?

The path had lead through bushy thickets.
Now I see fresh regions when turning:
you, blooming crops in fertile valley,
          far away summits!

My knees carry my travel fever.
And I take the ancient child I was,
with me in a tiny coffin,
          like an amulet.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: Canzone

To My Wife

I don't know yet what you mean to me,
my heart about you keeps me muted,
covered in veil you are my dear,
and to you, I don't know what I mean,
bringing you good fortune, I still don't know,
or my mortal ornament in gold and diamond:
new and sweet infliction,
through its trails it is hard to find the right course.

I only know my heart expected nobody,
and suddenly you became his company,
taking away life and death,
returning it to new magnificence;
within me a forest: homeless beast of prey,
flocks of birds from lightning hurried away;
my shelter will fall apart,
in case you failed to find your home inside.

I only know that with your pliant curves
mine is familiar almost forever,
with my head nesting on your breast,
in front of you, no shame, I often wept,
I hide nothing from you and you proceed
intimately on my wild Tibetan field,
wavering compassion,
or star-seeking eyes hanging on the night-sky.

Shattered nerve, this bad owl finds the calm,
blue taper of your eyes; little lady,
cuddling against your knees the dog
of sensuality is falling asleep;
and the King of Light, the eternal soul is
still silent inside, may not know your lovely
name and is not judging,
thus, in red mantle, in love, he is waiting.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: Toccata

To my Friend Imre Bata

As I get older
I do find:
my life is clinging
to the past,

my roots are deep down
pulling me
while putting up with
history.

My childhood was:
imps and fairies;
not radio
or a TV,

horses and donkeys
had trotted,
automobiles were
rarity,

followed by fast
groups of children
in awe they chased,
and ran after.

The sky was empty,
a blue field,
no airplanes had put
streaks on it.

Railway cars or light:
the gleams of
far away little
train stations.

My fifty years
had plunged deeper:
from tales and fares,
I uncover,

from memories
I assemble
my grandfather,
great-grandfather,

I had long known
Klapka, Perczel,
my old brothers:
as I called them

because Rákóczi
or Drugeth
thought that I was an
old beggar.

How terribly old
I am! Then
Platon may have known
me even,

but I was an odd
character,
and he saw a boy
prettier.

When there was not
even a man,
fern shrub bending
over my head,

the shrub had called me
an old man.
When was I born then?
Not ever.

I carried two good
fistful of
dust easily from
creation,

roving nobody
is my name,
Maitreya, Amor,
also Love,

I have been here since
ancient times,
but will die with a
butterfly.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath