The painter they call Simon
„It would be nice to simply pass away Ferenc”,
said Simon agedly doddering along, smiling,
bristly like a red thistle flower,
like a rabbit-hair hat, or a branch of a galaxy,
wobbling in the cold wind like a thorn-skeleton,
under his neck, on his right shoulder, the diamond cross of the Everything.
In front of him, crept his grave shadow like a stooping, mute
lizard kneaded from lilac carbon paper, the legacy of passing.
In front of him, staggered, stumbled, with a foam-paint brush in his mouth,
the bloody figure spat on, peed on, beaten up,
pushed towards crucifixion, creased towards the light, shuffled,
whom the breeding sinful-wailing humanity never put on as a golden shirt,
on his head, the thorn crown as a wreath of stars,
his blood-fringed head with his jail barred eyes tilted here and there
like the spurge, like the milk thistle with yellow woolhair hat.
Simon, Simon, is that how we will be gone?
is this all in this upperworld inferno, is this all, is this all?
Has the cross-bearer been given plenty to drink, plenty to eat?
He put a sponge full of the vinegar on hyssop and held it to His bloody teeth.
No passing, no words, no tomorrow.
This is how the churning, churning madness, just like the storm-breathing sea,
this is how man becomes God, God becomes man.