Sándor Tatár

Bespeckled

Whatever you say, it's plain to see,

man is the strangest entity -

nothing will please him, but nonetheless

he yearns not to reach Nothingness,

what's more, he recoils from being dead,

chooses to toil and strive instead,

watches Big Brother, drops his pants,

come the cup final he raves and rants,

childishly obsessed he's always been;

a holy alliance is the sinner's dream,

with outsmarting others he's quick to cope,

while his maudlin motto's "Faith, and hope..."

self-sacrifice that would a saint befit

is followed by gluttony, demerit,

his soul given wings by drugs galore

tumbles down; the fallen side's allure

he can't resist; his only place to dwell

is here: as a gem, but as junk as well,

moaning under self-imposed weights

he weeps, sets fire to real-estates,

and salvation in his neighbour seeks,

but only his own reflection meets,

keeps tripping, towards his own self he veers,

- no fact is wet behind the ears;

his blood boils as he leafs the news,

- did his fiends their power lose?

he reads, writes poems (or neither nor)

or simply loafs outside his door...

not quite a top-notch entity

is Man, behold, that's plain to see.

(aus dem Ungarischen von Péter Papolczy)

Rezension I Buchbestellung I home 0I05 LYRIKwelt © S.T.