by Attila Jozsef
And so I've found my native country,
that soil the gravedigger will frame,
where they who write the words above me
do not for once misspell my name.
This black collection-box receives me
(for no one needs me any more),
this Iron Six that was worth twenty,
this coin left over from the war.
None needs that iron ring inscripted
with sweet words, that the world is new:
rights, land. - Our laws are the leftovers;
now pretty gold rings all pursue.
For many years I had been lonely.
Then many people visited.
I'd have been happy if they'd stayed.
You are alone, was what they said.
And so I lived, useless and empty,
and now I see it all quite plain.
They let me play the fool until
by now even my death's in vain.
All through my life I've tried to weather
the whirlwind that would always blow.
I was more sinned against than sinning,
and it's a laugh that it was so.
Spring, summer, autumn, all are lovely;
but winter's loveliest for one
who hopes for hearth and home and family
only for others, when all's done.
Last updated January 14, 2019