As If In Tranzit
Átutazóként
As someone who one winter's morning came
to with a start on a bench in a waiting room
grown cold while blood from day breaking above
seeps through the glass roof scrambles to his feet
in a corner of the sordid, dreary chamber
looks around and cannot understand
why he is here what this bustling means
this clamour which big city the station
he has arrived at is attached to what
sort of bundles the throbbing mass around him
spilled forth from why are they shoving
past each other where are they running to
whence the farflung splattering of drunkards
racketeers with knives market women
wearing sheepskin waistcoats commuters soldiers
on leave newsvendors track repairers civil
servants carrying tattered briefcases
Polacks selling towels gipsies with bundles
loitering students crazy guys exploding
paper bags tired men in quilted jackets
carrying tommy guns old unshaven
tramps a little baby howling next to
its under-nourished teenage mother
policemen whores bible-thumpers
what gigantic groin or throat
spews them out why do they run
blindly if the loudspeaker crackles orders
why do they swarm which train are they getting
on why are they agonising in
such throes understands not a thing
just looks on shyly while the tainted blood
of dawn seeps through the distant filthy glass
without the faintest notion what sort of
mission or curse he's got caught up in
where he came from or what kind of past
the home that once was his has sunk into
like someone who one winter's morning comes
to with a start on the bench of a waiting room
grown cold as if in transit between two
places that's how I was born the chamber
is cold the bench is stone and I don't know
today how why or where I was kicked out from
what sort of mortal sins I expiate
until God smites me down or concedes pardon
and meanwhile I can just keep travelling on
Translated by Christopher Whyte
As someone who one winter's morning came
to with a start on a bench in a waiting room
grown cold while blood from day breaking above
seeps through the glass roof scrambles to his feet
in a corner of the sordid, dreary chamber
looks around and cannot understand
why he is here what this bustling means
this clamour which big city the station
he has arrived at is attached to what
sort of bundles the throbbing mass around him
spilled forth from why are they shoving
past each other where are they running to
whence the farflung splattering of drunkards
racketeers with knives market women
wearing sheepskin waistcoats commuters soldiers
on leave newsvendors track repairers civil
servants carrying tattered briefcases
Polacks selling towels gipsies with bundles
loitering students crazy guys exploding
paper bags tired men in quilted jackets
carrying tommy guns old unshaven
tramps a little baby howling next to
its under-nourished teenage mother
policemen whores bible-thumpers
what gigantic groin or throat
spews them out why do they run
blindly if the loudspeaker crackles orders
why do they swarm which train are they getting
on why are they agonising in
such throes understands not a thing
just looks on shyly while the tainted blood
of dawn seeps through the distant filthy glass
without the faintest notion what sort of
mission or curse he's got caught up in
where he came from or what kind of past
the home that once was his has sunk into
like someone who one winter's morning comes
to with a start on the bench of a waiting room
grown cold as if in transit between two
places that's how I was born the chamber
is cold the bench is stone and I don't know
today how why or where I was kicked out from
what sort of mortal sins I expiate
until God smites me down or concedes pardon
and meanwhile I can just keep travelling on
Translated by Christopher Whyte