She composed a lullaby
from frost, rain, rising sun, and wind,
as the birds flew high,
as the squirrels were chasing.
...
I got home quickly today, there was quite little traffic.
I didn't tell you, so here are some words, they are graphic,
Just a drawing of the time I was there with you.
/It's standing in front of my house, I can see you in the yew./
...
The days are just running out and
the man's arm still doesn't hug me.
There is no reality, there is nothing
what mine, that is only a movie.
...
Távolság /3./
Mondd szerelmem, bízol bennem?
Elmegyek, ha el kell mennem.
Nem zárul rád a két karom
...
Distance 6.
Embrace me as tightly as you never hugged anyone.
Hug me because you can't hug me tomorrow.
...
Nem szégyen, ha lehajtod néha a fejed,
ha Gordiuszi csomók utadba állnak
s választásaid lám szűkre szabottak,
mint utcán daloló harmonikásnak.
...
I'm the infinite space.
You entered this place.
Space stays here.
It's got wind in it.
...
The most pretty poem is perhaps prose.
the lost scent
of an old rose.
...
Suddenly
I fell asleep. Suddenly you were there.
You hugged me tightly in my dream.
And the world has changed at once,
...
What is this feeling I feel?
Like when the sun comes out,
Like when a breeze blows my face,
It's coming, I have no clout.
...
The man who loves me,
should be more than the world,
the dream is beautiful in his arms,
his desire is like the soaring bird.
...
Excerpts from the paper basket
I'm just looking at this person who I am.
I hear her babble, I hear and I am listening to.
...
Mi ütött beléd te lovag?
Sápadt magányban ácsorogsz
száraz medernél és a szél
síri csöndet hoz.
...
Poetry is freedom. Freedom of feeling, freedom of expression, freedom of belonging. I often pay attention to myself when an artwork beats my heart, puts a smile or tears on my face, excites me, gives me inspiration, unleashes the depths of my soul and enables me to create. They are bringing me to life.)
Song Of The Tree Rings
She composed a lullaby
from frost, rain, rising sun, and wind,
as the birds flew high,
as the squirrels were chasing.
She made it from running of beetles,
from the tousled hair of angels,
from lots of decades,
to her everglades.
She wanted to give them fond memories,
so composed it from hard, vibrant centuries.
The wind carried her children so far,
non of them are there,
but now she says goodbye.
The loneliest childminder.
She rocks a sprout of maple
her cradle still is strong,
one long sigh, already last,
then she ends the song