To Material (Rough Draft) Poem by Szilárd Borbély

As the flesh tightens across the bone,
so does evening bend into the arch. The weight
hangs upon the string, as the eyelid

grows heavy at the sight. Weighty, like the sway
of the earth in heaven's depths. Suddenly
the star-filled heavens above

veer away. For evening has come, and it falls below,
brushing against faces, its frozen hand does not
mold the form concealed in substance.

It travels in the void, like dust, like specks of dirt,
cast upon waves of sun-fringe. Remnants
of material in place of the eye.

Then not even that. Stubborn muscle-
tissue below the rent frame.
Incomprehensible words reach into the heart.

Why bother with the love that shall
follow, like dew after the night.
As tears seep down after pain.

It runs along the leaf's vein to the end, and falls
from the needle-pointed tip. The earth grows dense,
the grass above sinks down. Only gravity

is present, this strange affinity
towards the body, in the body. It attracts
and repels itself, like a God, everywhere.


Translated from the Hungarian by Ottilie Mulzet