Miklós Radnóti: Changing Landscape (Változó táj)

In the puddle steps the wind
whistles and runs outside,

suddenly turns around
and slams the gate behind.

The puddle flatly winks
and then the lazy trees
open up suddenly

their bird like tiny lips.

All around muddled noise,
even the leaves mumble,
small towers of dust are
being built in dust bowls.

The squirrel-brown monk stops
his walking on the road,
above a brown squirrel
jumps the branches across.

Then with great watchfulness
what moved before: stiffens,
the landscape carrying
the sky as a big hat.

When it moves again,
almost all is quiet,
the wind hid in the shrub
getting ready for rest.

Smiling is the meadow,
round and ready to laugh,
softly swaying from where
my lady comes along.

Seeing me, starts to run
towards me in the grass
in her hair floating by
golden rays the sun bites.

Getting clearer around
and becoming tranquil
the chased off light returns
embracing everything

and what used to carry
the sky as a big hat:
waving with the clouds is
the landscape, the hatless.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Gábor Devecsery: Exchange of Roles (Szerepcsere)

Honey-scent of linden
pouring through the window;
idyllic memories of
past breakfasts riddle
the presence of summer.
Enough’s left for winter:
honey on the table,
turn around the picture:
above - happy phantom -
linden-scent of honey
scents the present summer.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Mihály Babits: Fugitive Love (A szökevény szerelem)

Many years, many years:
our love is still that burns?

I think, this is not love,
the love we had is long gone.
Love set me on fire,
on fire then retired,
left me here,
left me here.

Like two beautiful trees
burning on deserted fields
their burning flames collide,
the two become one:
they are red,
they are red.

Two oil wells, not two trees,
collide with their burning tongues -
they are deep, they don’t burn out.
Love already has gone far,
is laughing,
is laughing.

Who needs love here anymore
my dearest of all?
I can only love you the way
as I am loving myself,
blazing and scorching, cruelly

and the fugitive love behind,
as I feel it, is laughing.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath