Who ate the summer? Yesterday
it was still here, we checked its temperature:
37°C in the shade, that is, in the armpit
of trees. Now, there is no fever, no summer,
the shivering trees grasp
their leaves, ugly skeletons, spit out
fish-bones. But who ate the summer?
I look suspiciously at my dog:
he shakes his head, wrinkles his snout, walks off,
growls offended: “Again they blame me
for everything …” I look at the swallows,
they scrawl some string script on the hydro line,
I try to make it out, but can’t read it,
what is it about, whom is it for? I dismiss it,
Ah, this is too big a bite for them! A cat
sails across the fence, the taste of mice, sparrows, stolen cream
in its mouth, doesn’t care about summer-eating, mockingly
meows back from the third neighbour. The cymbal of sunflower
gently vibrates. I am listening,
it may know something. Maybe the flowers!
There are roses in the garden, canna lilies, marigolds,
morning glories do gymnastics on the stretched rope;
sniffing them I mutter: “Scent smell, summer is there!”
The rose shakes its head, the canna lily
tolls hollow, the marigold blushes, the morning glory
laughs with open mouth: what a dumb question!
I shake my head, it echoes hollow, I blush,
but I don’t laugh, because it’s not dumb,
not at all, for where does what was disappear?
And shivering I grasp my leaves,
Because, for a happy moment, I am the summer
it was still here, we checked its temperature:
37°C in the shade, that is, in the armpit
of trees. Now, there is no fever, no summer,
the shivering trees grasp
their leaves, ugly skeletons, spit out
fish-bones. But who ate the summer?
I look suspiciously at my dog:
he shakes his head, wrinkles his snout, walks off,
growls offended: “Again they blame me
for everything …” I look at the swallows,
they scrawl some string script on the hydro line,
I try to make it out, but can’t read it,
what is it about, whom is it for? I dismiss it,
Ah, this is too big a bite for them! A cat
sails across the fence, the taste of mice, sparrows, stolen cream
in its mouth, doesn’t care about summer-eating, mockingly
meows back from the third neighbour. The cymbal of sunflower
gently vibrates. I am listening,
it may know something. Maybe the flowers!
There are roses in the garden, canna lilies, marigolds,
morning glories do gymnastics on the stretched rope;
sniffing them I mutter: “Scent smell, summer is there!”
The rose shakes its head, the canna lily
tolls hollow, the marigold blushes, the morning glory
laughs with open mouth: what a dumb question!
I shake my head, it echoes hollow, I blush,
but I don’t laugh, because it’s not dumb,
not at all, for where does what was disappear?
And shivering I grasp my leaves,
Because, for a happy moment, I am the summer
and the tree, and why was I if
I disappear, and why do I disappear if I was?
Translated by: Maria Bencsath
