Who, if I was human, would hear me, of the demonic orders?
Deep in the slag crater, who would I invoke when the storm is
Mingling with sameness, what kind of thought would call me?
How would I, a bait, survive on the skyhook piercing the spheres?
No, I have nothing to do with humans.
Interest pours into their wrecked days,
They dread freedom, my flapping wings
are their shutters running down,
they are reading this poem in a room in twilight.
They crave to suck my soul, while I’m drinking their blood.
If I was human, I would tie a kite to
the red navel¬string of family: my desires,
and when the wind lulls, I would run, more and more terrified
in happiness, towards the edge.
I would not open the door on my friends in their cotton boxes,
I would only send them words of endearment, like a pocket radio.
Walking to a family house,
cool alleys would caress my lover. I would write words on a paper,
and not signs of sparkle on the fog, and if deeds would
fall asleep in my brain, my hands would start thinking.
I am your death, stop reading me, you pious
roomer, I put out the ember in your eyes.
I know you wanted to take an excursion with the family
this afternoon, out to the demon forest,
to see some game, but you have to admit it is a failed project.
Stay at home, the football match hasn’t ended,
let your fate be a puppet theatre of forces,
and when the curtains roll down, shit your pants.
Do not call my name when you want a little
weekend black mass; your spongy whispers
will not reach me in my fellow demons’ alder grove
where lonely stars glow in the fog,
where farewells are not fed from your palm,
and love is a gold dagger, not munched wafer.
Get thee behind me, Man, run from the serum¬smelling abyss,
I will not remain in your thoughts by any word,
for I will slip away from your being, Satan waves at you,
you are but a minion of a meaningless life,
you do not even recognize me in the
negation of your idiotic faith,
not even in the beastly fear I send you
when falling asleep, so that hope be forever gone;
your dream trees shut their fingers, the new day
does not bear another new day, waking up turns into a clench,
“conscience”, the word is ticking in your chest,
a pulsating grenade, this poem is the pin.
I pull it out. Get lost, son of man, do not disturb my pleasures,
the night towering above you.
Translated by Barbara Bércesi