László Nagy - The one hiding in the song

You`re a bandit hiding in the song, hiding
From cries, from worries, from fates for-you-tailored
The ill-famed woods and bushes
Climbers do you make around yourself,
the dark night besides
in which even your white shirt
becomes a flickering silky nightmare
just a wind-lashed flame of alcohol,
a bandit you are, hiding in the song,
your eyes, even your eyes are an opening
amidst the foliage disappearing while expanding,
the foliage shrinking but always somewhere else
your always in archery but never shot,
wolfish fire and restraint outside, roe deer – rosy little star inside –
the inside of your blood, of your blood`s iron
among the azure panes of your membranes
a luxurious world the embryo of yours
and your sin, for a real sun shines there,
your a bandit hiding in the song,
a blessed bearded maternity
the partisan maternity crowned with branches
lest you should be a living drum
on the hoiday of fists cruising in the space,
less you should have a miscarriage of your being
because of the sand-bags for thumping death
and less the hands- tongs should take
the fairy lightings off your senses
and make a bunch of them in front of a mirror
and everything would freeze for the stone-log
to put your translucent shirt on,
crown yourself with a branch and restrain yourself
you`re a bandit hiding in the song,
that`s what you are: for both celestial and earthly circles
are burning and the bird falls down like ashes;
for he who gives birth to a wheel
spins madly in mourning
and the elliptical maple seed weeps,
what happened to the primal idea derived from it?
And since this heaven for the parachute opening
is no paradise: the field chamomile of death
and up closes the entily –for even blessing blurs
when gunpowder and manna blend,
for, turning its back to the hairs of light
the scared babe bangs with its fists
on the motherly door
and the horrified flock of sheep from the vast hill crests
would coma back running
to hide in the blood though tiny primal cell
back under the burning moons-
you’re a bandit hiding in the song
wearing moss-boots and a whole colony of ants
and you are white hot from the poisons of restlessness
judging a midst thorns of fidelity
unable to escape fidelity until your death,
you`re a bandit hiding in the song,
the love of yours: your lily with five fingers
you throw before the sniffing hounds,
the investigate, and blood slowly runs
out of it.