László G. István

 

Without trouble your sorrow can

be mine.  I don’t do anything with it

anyway. I don’t foul it up. Of my trouble

now the same can’t be said, that’s going

to be another sorrow of yours, so now

without trouble, it’s mine, too. I don’t do

anything with it anyway, with my sorrow.

I don’t foul it up. It grieves me that without

trouble my sorrow is yours. You foul it up.

Of your trouble now the same can’t be said,

that’s going to be another sorrow of mine,

so now, without trouble it’s yours, too. It does not

grieve me. You do something with it, with my sorrow.

You foul it up. No trouble when we go

without sorrow. We don’t do anything

with it anyway. We foul it up. Of our sorrow

now the same can’t be said. It’s another

trouble we don’t go without. We do something

with it. We don’t foul it up, perhaps.