László G. István

 

There is no word for anger. He was not angry.

He put his anger in future conditional.

Between two tree-trunks the remains of the heath,

a tired green patch, a parched future, where no

prophesy sounded over the place. A two inch

desert the only thing, a fault of beard

on the face of a prophet that clipped together

the rim of his eyes so that he had to

sqint all the time. They say, the camels

swallow the water as if they dropped tears

inside, for need to drink. However, what gathers

some rain, must bring forth a dry sea

in the eye. Prevent the coming of the wind and

the weariness over the draught. Don’t rip my land,

don’t let he sky draw a furrow over the body.

Don’t let the passion sear to the root.

Don’t let me raise my anger.

Translation: Geher István