I know my poetry means nothing
other than in a world you are absent from.
I have a hoof in place of a heart
and a hair ball instead of a liver.
Do you think I carried the candle for it?
What are you staring at, József Attila?
A blazing accordeon riffles through
the compacted singing of a chunk of meat
which must be gulped down in hiding.
Amidst the rabble, the shy senile cannibal
is kissing his own hands
splattering with saliva
the cheek of a coddled swine
who's laughing and staggering
staggering horribly on the gallows.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem