Perseverance, 1989 (29. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)

1989-01-15 / 1. szám

N­o . 1 . . Vo­l . 29«. - 2 ­...................PERSEVERANCE. . . J­a­n­u­a­r­y έ5­t­h !989 (Translated by Watson Kirkconnel) ETERNAL BANALITY By László Mécs Spring has come back, to tell the truth, as nothing new, And with it the swallow, the stork, the shrike, The violet, the lily op the valley, the tulip, So WAS IT LAST YEAR AND THE YEAR BEFORE. FOR AGES AND AGES. The TREES, DRUNK WITH SECRET WINE, PLUNGE THEIR ROOTS Into the earth and their buds into the waves of light. My SOUL, TINGED with UNSPEAKABLE JOY, FEELS ITSELF LINKED By a thousand bonds to man, to the earth, to the sky, to God. As IF l HAD NEVER SEEN SUCH A SPRINGÎ DOES SOMEONE WISH To MAKE SPORT OF ME. I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THESE MEADOWS. Why wander there? Pushed by a magic power I stray nevertheless Before the Lord's window like a lover before his loved one’s house. I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY AND YET SOME POWER FORCES ME TO SPEAK, TO SING, TO WHISTLE LIKE THE BLACKBIRDS. 1 AM IN NO HURRY, AND YET I HAVE TO RUN By the hills, by the fields, from birch-tree to BIRCH-TREE. I HAVE NO ONE TO CARRY FLOWERS TO IN SECRET AND YET MY HAT And my cane are in flower and 1 feel a flower stir in my breast. I HAVE NO REASON TO BE GLAD AND YET I SHOULD LIKE TO GLIDE Like sun-tipsy larks into discontented hearts. Someone looks at me: with dewy eyes, with forget-me-not eyes, With poppy eyes, with sunflower eyes, someone looks at me. Someone speaks to me: with the voice of plant and leaf and Aeolian With the violin of desire soneone speaks to me. HARP. What rhythm stirs the air? Waves pass by. t hear Nature. Light-kisses shower on the earth, I follow the course of the clouds, 1 AM aware OF PLANS TAKING SHAPE, AND I SEE MEN Pursuing their purposes. What rhythm stirs the air? Nothing new, to tell the truth. !t is a commonplace. And yet one must grow tipsy with springI Must open A window on the Infinite, must breathe the joy of the azure! And live in the rhythm of Faith, of Hope, and of LoveI MY CRADLE By ANONYMUS You WERE MY CRADLE, SHELTER, And my nurse crooning above me, Hungary, my own land. Terrible! that the times so divide us, The genius of anguish mounts to my saddle, And rides off with me. I shall see The bright paths your rivers follow, Your forests in blossom, Your fields green, And this trail that my horse marks out with his hooves In the sacred earth, No MORE. (Translated by James Wright) "GREAT WORKS ARE PERFORMED NOT BY STRENGTH BUT BY PERSEVERANCE" (S. Johnson)

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