Maundy Thursday

By Jenő Dsida. Original.

There was no connection. They said
six hours' delay and in the suffocating dark
I sat six hours in the waiting room at Kocsárd,
on Maundy Thursday.
My body was broken and my soul burdened,
like someone who set off on a secret mission at night,
on a fateful earth to the sound of stars
escaping from fate, and yet going against it,
who with well-trained senses could feel
the enemy's stalking steps from afar.
Beyond the window, train engines rumbled,
the dense smoke, like a broken bat's wing,
slapped me. A dull horror
had gripped me, a deep, animal fear.
I looked round: I'd have liked to exchange
a few words with good, familiar people,
but the night was damp and cold,
Peter slept, John slept, Jacob slept,
Matthew slept and everyone slept...
Large drops set off from my forehead
and rolled down my crinkled face.