With the dead. Poem by Szabolcs Várady

I take good care in my dealings with the dead.
I'm not sure whether they know that they are lost.
You come through the door; it greets me as you pass -
but that is not quite how one greets a ghost.
And yet it's not just me who feels embarrassed.
Let's pretend. Let's play the sickly host
lying in bed, the visitor at his side,
let's try to help each other as they must,
incredulous, but credibly nonplussed.

How much time do you have? How much do I?
Your mouth is as sincere as it ever was,
that kiss of greeting isn't merely mime.
I must have been desiring you some time.
We stood in the snow, lost, the pair of us.
No sun is on the rise. The cold prevails.
I love you. That's what you said once: I love you.
The snow has melted, they have buried you,
that's what remains.

Translation: George Szirtes