All Souls' Day
A little schoolboy hurries through the park,
a see-saw shivers in the evening squall,
a faded raincoat rustles in the dark,
the moon – pawnbroker's ball – threatens to fall.
Along the plinth below the monument,
like feathers fallen from an angel's wing,
the candles tremble. Grey park, stone, cement,
steel-plated skies dishearten everything.
Like peeling city posters left to rot,
the terror has a smell of glue and wet,
I cross the autumn playground at a trot
with chestnuts in my pocket. I am eight.
Translated by Peter Zollman
From 'Selected Poems' by István Baka