László G. István

 

The blooming doesn’t last, on the icing damask

the beaked vase stands, the three flowers

I put there droop, as if the petals

withered out of a luke-warm handshake.

So we lived for three years. On the woolly carpet,

the downy surface of afternoons, we slid.

There were always china saucers with morsels of cakes

you mouthed, dropping from your fingers – on my pillow

(you slept on it) I always found dandruff.

Just tell me dear, I listen, pity is a mass of things.

Evenings the air, as if we drank the cherry-wine

from broken glasses, sweetened around you, your nose

exhaled a wind of perfume. I blew your mouth,

like blowing on hot soup, pooh-pooh, I spooned

its brown surface, the loving glaze, from your face,

but only your sin curdled, I took a sip,

it went down my throat. There was some waltz, forgetting-music,

your hands glided on ivory keys, I ought to

watch now. There is no bitterness in me,

only tonight the frieze of light on the cut glass,

as if carved by your eyes, strikes me as jarring, never

again shall I see you, but again I forgive.

Translation: Geher István