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.