standing in front of a mirror
you recall it said:
to hinge upon time is self-delusion
tomorrows and days after,
longevity or ephemeron
are mere matters of illusion
at twilight or dawn
being singularly alone,
or with a once-beloved one,
you realise that sweet words, too,
have finally abandoned you
a few ripples of the musi
remnants of the danube once blue
carved upon the forehead
salty hairs that fall
onto your sagging shoulders
gushed sounds to the ears:
bang, bang!
to whom does this phizzog belong
should be no crucial question
if only you could summon
a daring, long-gone, emotion
(Budapest-Jakarta, 1993-1999)
