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László G. István

Towns Fall

A tattered frieze, your eyebrow

holds in prison whatever may look at it.

We never look at the other. We talk

like the day and the night cast light

on the foil of the mirror – it’s better

to keep silent here. The ebb and flow

of anger have worn the dark ditch

under your eyes, the swell of waves you will

helplessly endure, indeed, the rhythmic rocking

sets you to rest, or so it would

if your rest, too, were not conceived

in anger. Have an early start? Your rage

reaches no longer than your rest.

You can bring a few things. Your face

sheds powder like plaster as you turn

and turn on the pillow, so towns fall,

as one moment falls

on the other moment.

Translation: Geher István