I’m back again, having found myself no grave,
With earth beneath my feet, though no sky above.
If such there was would it do me any good?
That so-called heaven is devoid of God.
In my time I knew the odd angel or two –
A handful perhaps, though no host, it’s true.
Their words left me in the cold, frostbitten –
Neither in their care nor yet forsaken.
I was who I was, am who I am now,
Though I will never be – that much I know;
Nothing else I know with any certainty.
Judge me thus. Absolve me of my frailty.
2
[…………………………………………………………]
Translated by Bill Tinley
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From Selected Poems by István Baka