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Asks me if I lied,
then bored, pushes me aside,
a lonesome moon lights up the sky.
I watch it motionless,
it wounds me, I confess,
it melts gold glint in the waters of my eye.
No soul can persevere,
I no longer fear
what can make the fainthearted perspire.
Small cloud forts grow
with houses below,
and then tired thoughts set them on fire.
Rips into slings
under bushes rattled by a scare.
Egos are told
like tinkling gold,
on the cobblestones a shadow hunts for air.
I hurry off the curb.
Waiting for a word,
for a lighter homebound load to bring.
Got no friend of note,
nor an overcoat,
and the evening’s hair flutters in the wind.
Translation copyright 2018 Paul Sohar. From The Conscience of Trees by Zoltán Böszörmény, translated from the Hungarian by Paul Sohar. Published by Ragged Sky.