Copper beeches, glistening poplars
And pine-trees steep above the October fog.
In the valley the lake steams. On the other side,
On mountain ridges, snow already lies.
What remains of life? Only this light,
Peculiar to sunny weather in this season,
Which makes you blink. People say: This is –
And there is neither skill nor talent
Able to reach beyond whatever is,
And unnecessary memories lose their strength.
A smell of cider in barrels. The priest
Mixes lime with a spade outside the school.
By a path my son is running there. Boys carry
Sacks of chestnuts they have gathered from the slopes.
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem
(Saith the prophet), let my right hand wither.
An underground tremor shatters that which is:
Mountains crack, forests are rent asunder.
Touched by what was and by what will be,
What is crumbles into dust.
Violent, clean, the world is again in ferment,
And neither ambition nor memory will cease.
Autumn skies, who are the same in childhood,
The same in manhood and old age, I shall
Not look at you. And landscapes,
Who nourish the human heart with gentle warmth,
What poison is in you that lips are numb,
And arms folded across the chest, and eyes
Like a drowsy animal’s. But whoever in what is
Finds peace, order and an eternal moment
Will vanish without trace. Do you agree then
To destroy what is and snatch the eternal moment
From flux – a gleam on the black river? I do.
Translated with George Gömöri