Behold a poem of mine.

This is its second line

“Our Poet and His Time”

sounds firm with letter T.

Nothing in it is flitting

as if it were the dust of anything –

as if the dust . . .

Nothing in it is flitting,

as if it were something: the world

swaying in expanding space

embarking upon its future

the way the branch sways and sea rumbles,

the way the dogs are howling

in the night . . .

Me, in the chair, that's on the ground

and Earth underneath the Sun,

the solar system and the jail

are revolving among the stars –

the universe wakes nothingness,

as, inversely, inside me

this very thought . . .

My soul is space: It would fly

to the mother, to great Space, high.

Like a balloon to its nacelle,

I tie it to my body.

It's neither real, nor is it a dream,

It's called: a sublimation of

my drive . . .

Come my friend, come look around

You are working in this world and

compassion's working inside you.

All the lies you tell are in vain.

Now, let this go, now, let that go;

watch the evening light with the evening

dissolve

As far as the slope stretches

the blood red stubble-field lies,

bluishly clotting. The tiny,

feeble lawn cries and bends down.

A cadaver-like lividity

sits softly on the happy hills.

Night's falling.

1937

translated by Michael Castro & Gábor G. Gyukics