Calendar

January

The sun rises late, the sky is still

filled to the brim with thick darkness.

It's so full of blackness

that it almost drips.

The footsteps of dawn crackle on the ice

in the bitter coldness of grey.

February

Floating again, it settles on the ground

and finally the snow melts;

overflowing, it carves a path.

The sun flickers. The sky flickers.

The sun flickers, gives a wink.

And lo, with white voices,

the herd is bleating out there.

A sparrow rustles its feathers and gives a little screech.

March

Look, there's goosebumps on the puddle

and under the trees, with

wild teenaged breezes,

March races along and clamours.

The shivering bud has not emerged yet,

nor does the spider spin her web

but the little chicks already run:

yellowish balls of gold.

April

The breeze steps on tiny glass, lets out a scream,

and runs away on one foot.

Oh April, oh April, the sun

does not shine, nor do the

runny-nosed little buds begin crumble

under the whistling sky.

May

A blossom shivers on the tree

and falls. With whitish scents, dusk is here.

Cold night drips from the mountainside,

and on it, full-crowned tree lines walk around.

The shivering little warmth hides away,

while the wild-chestnut's candles shimmer and sway.

June

Look around you, it's noon and you'll see a wonder,

the sky is clear, no wrinkles graze its brows,

along the road all the acacias are blossoming,

the cseremelzek's golden tareja is growing

and a large, slothfully valiant

diamond-bodied may-fly

writes flashing signs on the bright sky.

July

Fury wrings the clouds above,

they give a frown.

On their bare feet, wet-haired showers

chase each other round and round.

They get tired, hide underground

and it's night.

A clear -bodied heat sits in the

shiny-faced green trees above.

August

September

October

A cool and golden wind flies on

and the wanderers sit down.

November

Frost has arrived, it screeches on the walls.

The teeth of the dead chatter. I hear it.

rustle on the dry brown trees above.

A screech-owl drops his prophecy on me.

Am I scared? Not at all, perhaps.

December

At noon, the sun is a silver

full moon, just flickering in the sky.

Fog flies: a weary bird.

Snow falls in the night and

angels race through the darkness.

Across the deep white snow,

death nears without a sound.

(Translated by Gina Gönczi, 2003-5)