freedom

   to eat
   to drink
   to sleep

   to find warmth
   in a story long told

   from tyranny
   from oneself
   from freedom itself

   of conscience
   from hell
   whom to love
   and whom to tell

...

(and freedom to decide,
how many lines
each verse should have,
which of the lines
-- if any --
should rhyme,
and which rules of
punctuation should
be put on hold
for a short time)

Let me closer

A big mix of emotions, not altogether positive, but all the more real. Republic: Engedj közelebb. Lyrics. Video.

tell me to not fear or doubt,
the fire we lit is not out
tell me nothing can hurt,
you'll wait without a word
keep lying to me

tell me: I have countless lives,
that we speak, just with our eyes
tell me that no one can hurt me,
in the dark, or in an alley
keep lying to me

tell me, everything was true,
every word, that time I believed you
bring warmth to me when I'm cold
tell me words I'd like to be told
keep lying to me

let me closer to you
let me be there too
I want to see all I can
and feel again, like a man
let the fire light us both
I want to see you close
closer than words
lie to me, if it hurts

let me closer to you
let me be there too
I want to see all I can
and feel again, like a man
let the fire light us both
I want to see you close
and be adored
the way it's not allowed

Of wolves and men

This is a request from Brooks Ferebee, an old family friend, and a loyal reader from Germany: Farkasok (Wolves) by Ferenc Buda. Original. The poem is only three verses long, but it was quite hard to translate, and I'm still not happy with the finished product. So do make suggestions for improvements in the comments section below the poem!

Ever since the world's been round
a head is hit and axed to ground
for man is a wolf to another man
an enemy, a one-man clan

Yes, wolves are wild, but
compared to us, they're almost kind;
merciful, smart, obedient, loyal,
they only kill when out of hunger

Sure, it happens, it's no surprise:
you spot a wolf with evil eyes
but think about it! it's the truth
that wolf is a man to another wolf.

fresh wind

on the glazed screens
ghostly pixels which
make/mark/carve up
images you mistake for love

the movements and moments
you once saw in your dear one
replayed, in a perverted show
to tickle something buried, long ago

and from behind the screens
-- screams --
to remind you that sirens need not sing
that beautifully

yes, even the muck draws us flies in

...

and when,
longing for that clear breath of wind
to breeze through you
and clean your soul

you indulge in a tear;
you tear the screens down
and you're shown life
as it's meant to be lived

and you make this lesson
your own