You see you can no longer hurt me…

Your last cheap joke hit me on the heart…

and whilst - with gritted teeth and angry

despair - I shoved the hard clay, the tart,

rough, sodden earth, onto your coffin

and from my eye a teardrop escaped

and rolled down my nose, and landed in

the dust, your white face I remembered

- amongst the creased sheets a face pallid –

and which the “Dream” charmed into a state

of exalted beauty. In languid

September sunshine that overstate

shadows, I looked at the black, gaping

hole and at the box in which you let

your broken body rest reclining 

and my anguished mind - ready to fret –

painted a mocking, misshapen smile

on the corner of your lips. I felt

that down there - in the cool depth’s exile –

where shadows and the Grim Reaper dwelt,

in a horse voice – just like in the past

often - you laughed at us… and at Death…

I stood… the minutes were running fast…

Pain intensified with every breath…

It was a silly, joke… you may laugh…

you see you can no longer hurt me…

- this will be your fitting epitaph -

…and neither can you ever love me…

© P.J. Oszmann (October 1964 – in Hungarian. English adaptation 2004)

© Illustration created in Photoshop. (2004)

Magda was my favourite aunt. During the last year of war - whilst in hiding from the Nazis under assumed names – she became my mother, according to the identity papers we carried.

She was a tower of strength; without her courage, astuteness and protective love, I do not think I could have survived.

When we arrived to London as penniless refugees in 1956, she gave us food and shelter, although by then she was seriously ill and exhausted. Consequently – and uncharacteristically - she became bitter and resentful about life and people around her.

She passed away – after her second open-heart surgery – in September 1964.

She lives on in my heart.

The original Hungarian poem:

Búcsúztató

Látod, már nem bánthatsz többet…

Utolsó rosszízű trėfád sziven ütött,

s miközben összeszorított szájjal, s dühödt

elkeseredėssel a földet

- az agyagos, kemėny durva rögöt –

taszitottam koporsódra

ės szememböl egy könnycsepp kiszökött

s orcámon vėgigpergett,

visszaemlėkeztem arcodra,

- a sok fehėr lepedő között

szintelen arcra – melyet

magasztos szėppė varázsolt az álom…

A Szeptemberi bágyadt napsütėsben

a feketėn tátongó gödröt nėztem,

s a ládát, melyben megtört tested

a pihenėsnek átengedted;

s gyötört kėpzetem szádnak szögletėbe

egy gúnyos kis torzmosolyt festett,

s ėreztem, hogy ott lent a hüvös mėlyben

rekedt hangon – mint máskor tetted –

mirajtunk nevettėl… ės a halálon…

Buta ėrtelmetlen vicc volt… Nevethetsz…

de… látod már nem báthatsz többet…

                          … ės nem is szerethetsz…

© P. J. Oszmann (October 1964)

Word by word translation:

Farewell

You see, you can no longer hurt me…

Your last tasteless joke hit me on the heart…

and whilst - with gritted teeth and angry

despair - I shoved the hard clay,

the rough, sodden earth, onto your casket

and from my eye a teardrop escaped

and rolled down my nose,

I remembered your face

- amongst the many white sheets colourless face –

and which the “Dream” charmed

into a state of exalted beauty.

In the languid September sunshine

I looked at the black, gaping hole and at the box

in which you let your broken body to rest

and my tormented imagination painted a mocking,

misshapen little smile into the corner of your mouth.

And I felt, that down there - in the cool depth -

in a horse voice – just like many times in the past –

you laughed at us… and at death…

It was a silly, meaningless joke… you may laugh…

But, you see, you can no longer hurt me…

             …and neither can you love…