Summer 1981 • Vol. III No. 3 Three Young Hungarian Poets |

Every Day Something Different

It's people like ourselves we seek, one at a time. People like ourselves simply don't exist, I say. Like I was preparing to issue an order: "Witches simply don't exist." Don't, yet better if they did. Better them than the holy ghost! What precisely is it, this struggle? Woodpeckers: blacksmiths of the trees. Kipi-kopi, tili-toli. Every day's the same. Every day the absence of the same things. Someone started again to step from fairy tale. When the rose-spray opened into a sword. And the two boys became lost. It's rumored both of them grew wings. For come morning even their things had flown away. Two beds, clothes, both outfits. Someone's taken off; who's going after him? Every day something else. As to people like ourselves            there aren't any, I say; and no man is a stranger. Without believing, maybe then you just keep going. Without faith, maybe you can start afresh.   — Translated from the Hungarian by Kenneth McRobbie

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