(1931-2005)
The Question
When that dress-grey, gray-haired and gray-faced
goblin took charge of me then inside the gate,
which closed behind me for a couple years,
I was still cheerful exceedingly
cheerful nodding out (hadn’t slept for days),
cheerful because taking part in real life
action again, two serious gentlemen
at my shoulders in a night-colored car which
special for me rolled across December’s bridge,
cheerful because I’d yelled out in the street
that this one and that one should be notified,
cheerful because I thought the adventure
a minor excursion, but cheerful also,
because such a gray such a small Uncle
I’d never seen yet, he however
wasn’t cheerful, was reassuringly
bored bananas, boringly signed for
my delivery and boringly turned my seven pockets inside-out,
then with a wooden face confiscated
handkerchief, pocketknife, bunch of keys,
next indifferently requested my belt
and examined personally whether
my underpants operated with string,
yawned apathetic patting me down,
last nearly napping asked for the laces
that wagged lighthearted from my shoe tops – –
“I can’t walk like this” — he shrugged a shoulder. Left hand holding my pants up, spellbound by
this unprecedented situation, yet
still cavalier I bowed deep presenting
him with the shoelaces in my right hand.
“What’s the point anyhow? I really don’t
intend to hang myself” — I assured him
lightheartedly. “You don’t?” he questioned. –“Why not?”
On his sallow face neither mockery nor hate.
That was when the fear caught up with me.
(Translated from the Hungarian by Allen Ginsberg)