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László G. István
Winding Sheet
A wounded wing, it was your face,
no longer looking, a dove before
the accident, slipping off the sidewalk, creased
like a dustrag. Look dear, I brought this
to you. Some sentiment flutters
against your mouth, like a web moving
to breath. I never believed that one
wasn’t made to lie. Of course, I need your hand,
a root, bulging the concrete, seeking soil,
a pressing tendril around me – to unwind
an afternoon won’t be enough. Now fly
my dear, fly, let me alone, I told you, let
the wounded wing sweep, let me be touched
on the mouth by a white farewell-bidding vine.
I want my winding sheet, I told you,
only after my death, please, understand,
I care for no covering.

Translation: Geher István