On my birthday

My father likes this poem. It was written by my great-great-grandfather, Gyula Vargha. It is obviously sad to think of death, especially those of loved ones. So it was not altogether fun to translate this, but thought-provoking. If I had one positive thing to say about the thought of death, it is the realisation of the futility of petty arguments. But sometimes even these we get into when we know it's pointless. E.g. I get quite worked up about media outlets publishing false (or one-sided, biased) stuff, and then my complaint not being printed. But then I hope that at the end of the day, if someone is really interested in the truth (and yes I do believe there is just one truth, even if sometimes we can only get close to it by balancing opposing points of view), they will hopefully dig a bit deeper. But it's easy to be sucked into an argument. Anyway, time is calling, I have to send this. Original.

On my birthday

When you've worked off seventy years
The hope of new tastes disappears
The handshakes and compliments
Hearty words, encouragements
Mean little else, but farewell
You have to go, if you hear the bell
The sky covered in darkness,
We'd gladly stay a few more minutes
But the horses outside
Are scratching the ice
How can the guest stay any longer?
Yes, they say, "please stay"
And it warms the heart to know
They're not getting bored.
But he's put on the fur coat
Here he shakes hands, there he embraces
And to the sound of Rákóczi's bell*
Sits on the sleigh, holds on tight
And sets off, into the blind night.

* Rákóczi's bell is a large, loud bell in Hungary that is struck in remembrance of men.