Jaj, ha a medve halkan tördeli ágak jég-süvegét, és ... - Turcsány Péter

Song of Thickets and Draggletailed Tendrils
(Bozótok, loncsos indák éneke)
You see but my footprints, the mere traces I leave,
never the antlered forehead; never ever do you spy
the trusting glance through your hunting rifle’s telescope,
but I can change into a slice of bread –
you can find me in the moment of a tender touch,
or in the surging growth of medicinal herbs.
You see but my footprints, the hollow traces
of the Savior turned into Stag.
For this is a song. A melody permeated
by the spirit of the ancients. The antlers of my forehead
carry the secret lightening of skyward-stretching trees –
the thick, hidden knots in the mud
cannot drag down the soaring flight
of my hooves – the snows of winter retain
the proof of my quiet visits; nor does the summer wind
blow them away under the blossoming trees of sandy banks.
And yet – when my surging mood spills over,
my tongue licks the poppies in the heat of summer
and the sewed grain starts to stick its head out
from beneath the soil; meadows of still untouched forests give me
a lair to rest; the rattle of heath and fallen leaves
never betrays me, nor will the light that trails all my footprints.
But prayers of yearning torment and
silent sighs will recognize me always.
Adam Makkai
Prayer for the Prisoners of Alcohol
(Fohász az alkohol foglyaiért)
278
People of the Booze – you, who hover over flat bottles
hiding in side-pockets of clerks’ briefcases, you, who emerge
from secret window-caves in editorial offices like fairies
meting out kisses, or in small privately owned taverns,
where the bartender refills your glass unasked; oh you,
confidentially murmuring, busy male-bond around rum,
slivovitz, moonshine and brandy bottles with the shameful
ersatz of espresso coffee’s grains stuck between the teeth
behind your stinking breath; oh you, metal-flasks in the
pockets of tattered