Dying is banned
On the day freedom comes!

translated by Omer Kursat

I had thousands of mondays in my life
cannot recall which one it was
I remember eating a cherry, it had a worm
so it must have been quite a while ago

and some absurd things
like the shorts on a girl
the ugly manner a man smoked

how does one live in this controlled world
how can any lunatic endure it
finding anyone’s family is not my duty
I am content composing my own story
it’s a beautiful midday
remembering a beautiful night of the past
and then things filled to the brim
like bottles of water
I feel like crying

let this be the end, I say
but the end of what
at least of these stone steps

translated by Omer Kursat

It’s as if
On every page of memories
There was some eye catching trap.
I don’t know, how
Was I to escape
The doubts playing over my tongue,
And from the hopeless runnning
In an empty room
As if hosting a guest
Between the four walls of words?

I became destitute
Never taking off these blind feelings
Winter or summer like a woolen vest,
Sitting on moss-covered stairs
Smiling into emptiness,
Never knowing who it is
That comes and goes.

translated by George Messo

It’s around noon
the empty hours of those waking late
those on leave, or jobless ,
those with clothes once fashionable
which now look old and cheap
—showing all the signs of a consummer society—
we pass over the asphalt.

Behind me
a girl carrying sorrow in her heartbeat
the smile of a bud smashing the ice
as if left here today by a deer.

translated by George Messo

In the trees a hoping for wind
a longing in me for the sea
but the wind blows and the sea shows
gulls in the coffer of the sky

perhaps we’re not here at all

translated by Ruth Christie & Richard McKane

You have lines in your palms
I see your horoscope
of a senseless sleep
you reach the snake house
through long corridors
the first room under the fairy roof
the first couch where we made love

tranlated by Ruth Christie & Richard McKane

The fruit was plucked from the branch
And crushed under an ironshod boot.
Now there’s the color of blood behind the mountain,
Now your eyes are bloodshot and dry.
Hold me, my rose, take this hand of mine,
The delight of my eyes has withered.

translated by Ruth Christie & Richard McKane

Now from his window
Poplars can be seen
Along the canal.
In the day it rains.
At night the moon comes out
And the square opposite becomes a market.
Be it a journey, money or a letter,
There’s always something on his mind.

translated by George Messo

From his window looking out on flat roofs
The harbour could be seen
And church bells
Rang endlessly all day.
Now and then,
And at night
Trains could be heard from his bed.
He began to fall in love with a girl
From the apartment opposite.
Even so
He left this city
And went to another.

translated by George Messo

They put his rifle in the depot,
Gave his clothes to someone else.
Neither bread crumbs in his satchel now
Nor lip prints on his can.
Such was the wind
That carried him away.
Not even his name was left.
Only this couplet remained
In his own hand on the coffeehouse wall:
“Death is God’s command,
If only there was no parting.”

translated by George Messo