I don’t know what it is but very ill-
intended. Surely a woman must belong to it.
And something like a laughter.
I am rotating the city on me,
rotating my beauty. That’s that!
Many keys, small keyholes whirling.
Gazes cannot be all in vain. And the answer?
Merely a jeer.
The vase hugs and kills me, can’t breathe.
Now my features – even with the best intentions –
cannot be called beautiful.
And her? The girl? Her trendy perfume
is Poison. For me a real poison indeed.
And the vase?
It hugs and kills me.
But what am I to do without?
Kinga Fabó (born 1953) Hungary
Translated by the author
Source: Poethead
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