The mirror has broken. From its fragments we
may piece together something like a view,
but earth and sky will not be welded – see,
the darkness comes before the night is due.
The view has broken, from its shards somehow
the mirror may be put together yet,
but earth and sky have changed positions now,
the dark has spilled over the day and set.
My shadow lies beside my wife in bed;
who squeezes through the needle’s eye will find
himself in hell.
The mirror has broken, from its shards or fragments
some overview or map may yet be jigged
as in a puzzle, where all things have frontiers
but get mixed up in between, in no-man’s land,
where a pin-cushion turns St. Sebastian,
the bronze bells melt into artillery
and we slurp a martial music in the pub
through trumpet-coloured beer. We cannot tell
the white-cloaked winter uniforms form snow.
The mirror has broken, the view has also broken,
and whoever tries to put these things together
confuses view with mirror, shard with fragment,
where days are soaked in darkness and low weather,
where women are impregnated by our shadows,
where from the clamour of bells they pour the sound
of long-range cannons with their distant grumbling,
where every season comes in camouflage,
and boots must be pulled on again. No strolling now
across the broken world with unshod feet,
no marching to the martial stench of beer,
the flames are bursting through the needle’s eye.
Translated by George Szirtes
Translated by Peter Zollman
_______________________________________
From Selected Poems by István Baka
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