Toast
The ruby wine is gloaming in the glasses
decaying gIrders of the dying sun
must soon collapse and night will fall on us
the slimy skinned convulsive earth is
already struggling with the angry storm
the lakes are sparkling like uprooted fish-scales
swept on the counter by the stripping knife
the chalky traces of a stroke of lightning
inscribe upon the slatish sullen sky
the judgment of a hand we cannot see
SO LET US RAISE OUR GLASSES
for we shall never slip a card again
between the bowstrings of the gypsy fiddler
instead of banknotes and when twilight comes
the suckling piggy clouds will not be holding
a full moon apple in their snouts because
we have become the lakes from which the dawn
was scooped out and we are the snowy
footprints of almighty God
our blood is gloaming in the ruby wine
SO LET US DRINK THIS IS THE FINAL GLASS
Translated by Peter Zollman
From 'Selected Poems' by István Baka