it's the wind singing

it's me, delivering the morning

to mourn and fly as one

for times uncountable

among blackened leaves

and etcher twigs

you'd better get away

to air

with tree-tops burning your flesh

a tortured forest panting -

the night is to come if that is what you wish for

look dear, how the fallen founders

taking circles to be taken up, carried and let fall...

look, how it reaches the heights to see

only to shrivel and wither

under my will

it crawls under litter

can not die

yet

for I keep it alive -

the night is to come if that is what you wish for

the land slowly awakens

collapsed

it is not yet over, I am here

and your hands are bleeding

for this I love you so much

hear my words and get ready my dear

to rise and fall

to be taken wherever you want to go

for I take you -

when the night comes if that is what you wish for

-

-

-

well, this is some troubled writing.

apart from that, I am fine.

I wrote it today, in Hungarian, with Z. in my mind:a story quite past its time...

it's like hearing fire crackling well after you have cleaned the ashes....

the sound lingers on because the fire burnt you somewhere you did not expect.

I wrote it out, now only to let myself think about it. I hope you are not disturbed as much as I was when I first read it.

I don't consider it a poem - also, suggestions to vocabulary and grammar are accepted: this writing is a translation.

-

Z. inspired 4 poems during his time.

this might be the last one on the way, the fifth one.

all the first four had the image of 'knife' and/or 'killing' and/or 'death' within. this one, written today is no exception. you might say it's far obvious.

it was the seemingly uncureable stomach ache, the seemingly uncontrollable fatigue and dizzines and seemingly unexplainable heart discomfort I had - far too obvious.

my body's response was way too clear.

that's why I cut it off before ... before what?

sometimes I think I was way too late with the knife.

-

well, there is no knife here - it's the bleeding, the blackness of the ashes, and the ache it left... and the sound of crackling.

it is not a poem, these are my thoughts condensed...

these lines help me to decipher the events and feelings, and they help me well :)

and yes, I exposed myself again.

if this is the way, my way - I don't mind.

I take every step the path offers.

for as someone once said it's not the traveller who chooses the path, it's the path that chooses the traveller...

-

cheers? or God bless you?

whatever:)

I'm already feeling much better.

-

photo: seemingly unrelated, taken by my daughter on 18 September. It depicts a Sun. quite a disturbing image I think.