István Vas: In Golden Net (Arany hálóban)

The pheasant is pacing in the golden net,

           his crest is blue and dark.

On heavy silver gown of golden embers:
          the twilight-sky.

The calyx of the purple peony-shrub
           pouring powerful scents,
with its golden foliage happily smiles
           the young elm branch.

How you belonged to be among these flowers,
           your flower-petal hair.
A dancing leaflet on the old twig, you are
           so far away!

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Lőrinc Szabó: What Can be Saved (Ami menthető)

I am tired of sadness, it has
tortured me long enough, and now,
I am looking at it with anger
as if it was some kind of grime,

I look at it like an enemy,
as I must, with hostility:
it is too easy to be sad and
I have no more time for it.

Indeed I don’t, since from morning till
night I’m working for my children,
I have less money than last year and
my heart has gotten even worse,

and this will continue through my life,
it can only become worse, thus
I do try to endure it all, and
if ruined, I don’t mind at all:

this is how I am trying to save
whatever I can from my life,
and once in a while I may perhaps
be even happy for a short time.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

György Somlyó: A Tale of the Hornbeam (Mese a gyertyánról)

Standing in entire yellow amongst winter-stripped trees alone

As if it was still bringing forth but yellow foliage
And why indeed must the foliage be green

Why does the sunshine not reveal yellow or purple from the lamina of chromatophores
Dresses up in the death of summer – that is also part of its life
Standing under it
With thousand candle lights around you
The silence is waving in yellow

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Rákos: Picture of a Tree in the Reflection of the Creek (Fa képe a patak tükrében)

I know, I discovered rather early,
that what I see is reflection only,
deceptive illusion, not a real tree,
although has a crown as well as big leaves,
yet no drunken bird wants to sing on it,
the bird only alights on the real tree -
alights on the real tree? But what looks real
is it not a reflection of something
even more genuine that stands somewhere -
and the most ancient bird sings on that tree?

Translated by: Maria Bencsath