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László G. István
„To execute my anger” (Isaiah, 13.3)
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