Marked blood-red –
Lead to the crest,
Cones drop in front of us:
Pine nut shrapnel
Pierces the heart.
My daughter’s skin: gleaming snow spot
Among the mountain’s snow spots.
And on the ridge, snow-lathered rocks
Graze, ruminating eternity.
The view’s pull imparts vision:
Black bulls upon green grass.
Blue Horses; Jostedalen-River
How many times have we crossed the small wooden bridge
Over the river tinged turquoise-blue by the glacier?
Only one car can cross at a time. Remember,
We set off uphill along the bank to seek the glacier
At its source. Now and again everything is simple.
As I looked through the windshield at the river,
It seemed as if a herd of blue horses, mouths foaming,
With backs, white-water lathered, bolted by.
The land’s the palm of a hand
– (god’s) I leave it unsaid –
Cut in halves by the rushing river’s
But what captures our attention
Is the creek’s thinner line,
Where we bathed
In the midst of wagtails.
We stand above the valley, mountainside –
Diminutive soothsayers who try to read
This huge, rock-callused palm.
A Single Bird
To Árpád Kun
Sometimes one bird
Embodies the pinewood.
Let us say in the fieldfare
That crashed into the windowpane,
From gaseous metamorphosed air.
Under its head’s ash-gray feathers
A glowing eye flickered its last.
Wind tousles the pine needles
Of its feathers. Lean
Close and you can hear
Murmurings from a miniature wood.
The beak, agape, oozes resin,
In the kitchen,
By the faucet:
Boiled from pine resin.
I smell it,
While washing dishes,
A forest chamber,
Whitewashed with snow.
I’m the lake
It’s not my daughter who looks like me;
It’s my face that mirrors her looks.
Translated by: Géza Simon
Tags: Roland Acsai