Old Address Book
Öreg notesz
I wish my old address book were still good.
Its pages as they were, not falling out,
and all those former names still mine to call.
Its cover in one piece, a crimson red,
holding itself together, like this green one.
I wish my old address book were still good.
And fading faces could be seen in full.
Less of the doctors, fewer offices,
and all those former names still mine to call.
In writing that is not too smudged to read,
the dear ones who have died would be right there.
I wish my old address book were still good.
Important ones, with hearts not yet grown cold,
would play important roles within that book,
and all those former names still mine to call.
That notebook's pattern, patchwork it was called,
friendly and cheerful, just the way it stood.
I wish my old address book were still good,
and all those former names still mine to call.
Light
A fény
Instead of seeing things as light sees,
I see the spectacle of light. The objective
vector of truth is warped by
the subjective mass that draws it in,
bends it toward itself without knowing.
And I can imagine calculations which I'm
not up to understanding, ones that would
let me see things rightfully, which from one
angle seem just, from another unjustified;
from one angle strong, from another high-handed;
from one, sensitivity, from another, just pretence.
Instead of seeing things as light sees .
But then, if I saw things as light sees,
would I see through the living flesh
to the bones, the deformities and tumors?
Behind spiritual torments would I spy
impetuously rushing hormones?
Instead of a broken face, could I read
a life's map, its system of causalities?
If I saw things as light sees .
And yet, if I saw things as light sees,
everything from all angles, without bias,
how could I live among humans,
who make mistakes, nurse disappointments, hopes?
How could my matter anything but light be?
