Miklós Radnóti magyar

A fool is he who, collapsed      rises and walks again,
Ankles and knees moving      alone, like wandering pain,
Yet he, as if wings uplifted him,      sets out on his way,
And in vain the ditch calls him      back, who dare not stay.
And if asked why not, he might answer      – without leaving his path –
That his wife was awaiting him,      and a saner, more beautiful death.
Poor fool! He's out of his mind:      now, for a long time,
Only scorched winds have whirled      over the houses at home,
The wall has been laid low,      the plum-tree is broken there,
The night of our native hearth      flutters, thick with fear.
Oh if only I could believe      that everything of worth
Were not just in my heart –      that I still had a home on earth;
If only I had! As before,      jam made fresh from the plum
Would cool on the old verandah,      in peace the bee would hum,
And an end-of-summer stillness      would bask in the drowsy garden,
Naked among the leaves      would stay the fruit-trees' burden,
And Fanni would be waiting,      blonde, by the russet hedgerow,
As the slow morning painted      slow shadow over shadow –
Could it perhaps still be?      The moon tonight's so round!
Don't leave me friend, shout at me:      I'll get up off the ground!
15 September 1944

85. oldal, Forced March

Earth-thick, he earthward stumbles      staggers up, forward lurches,
hobbling extravagant pain      stirs feet, spurs hard the haunches,
yet makes his way still crestward,      as one on wings lifted,
pointlessly tempted ditschward,      he dare not linger there,
pointlessly questioned, chided why      he'll only say again
how for him wait a wife      and a sensible lovely death.
Yet the poor fool's deluded,      for now about the homes
for the longest time now      the scorched wind's still blowing:
flat on their backs all your walls      shattered all your plum wood,
and all woolly grown with fear      the tender nights you knew.
O, could I believe somehow      that safe beyond heart's domain
everything we cherished still      home to which we might return;
if these yet were as once they were:      the ancient veranda's calm
a bee-loud silence sounded      with jars of plum jam cooling
and summer-end-sunbathed quiet      drowsed the soft-eyed garden
among whose leaves fruit swollen      naked lazily lolling
and Fanni blondely loiters      in red hedgerow shade,
shadow languidly penciled      in languorous morning
perhaps she's lotering still!      the moon so round today!
Friend, you mustn't leave me –      just yell! see, I'm up again.

Bor, September 15 1944

69. oldal, Forced March

Ich heiße dich wilkommen, Abendfriede,
mein schwerer Tag verfliegt im Straßenstaub;
gelassen döst mir dann im llinden Herzen
der Tod und rüstet rastlos doch zum Raub.

42. oldal (Corvina, 1984)