04. 08. 2016. 10:07

Ilona

Even at the height of virtuoso brilliance, homo aestheticus cannot shake off intimations of mortality.

Slender girl,
weaving there,
smile of the
moon above,
this is what
your name says,
Ilona,
Ilona.

Silently

in my soul
carolling
tra-la-la,
I cherish
your name with
this refrain,
Ilona.

It seems that

I can hear
soft breezes
whispering,
nereids,
wood-spirits
floating by,
Ilona.

As the mu-

ezzin cries
'La illah
ill' Allah',
so chant I
fervently
Ilona,
Ilona.

There, where the

day springs and
there, where it
vanishes,
into light,
into night,
Ilona,
Ilona.

Fragments of
dreaming all
crazily
disarrayed,
distant sound,
ghostly, of
harpistry,
Ilona

Oh, the sweet

sound of I,
oh, the pure-
lilting l,
like an old
ballad, so
softly sighs
Ilona.

Simply
I,
simply l,
simply o,
simply a,
simply milk,
simply silk,
simply, oh,
Ilona.

And it seems

coloured too,
delicate
lilac-blue,
palest of
anilin,
violet,
Ilona.

Though joy and

suffering
may never
go from me,
heavenly
balsam and
lanolin,
Ilona.

Dawning and
evening of
my fleeting
life on earth,
quietly,
constantly,
you are there,
Ilona.

Languorous

angels' cry
fades to in-
finity,
Ilona,
Ilona,
Ilona,
Ilona.

Translated by: Bernard Adams

Tags: Dezső Kosztolányi