The poet’s soul is born out of tunes,

With songs he weaves rainbow like moonbeams.

Varied tales and songs he softly croons

Out of his heart’s rich, colourful dreams.

His heart and soul sing like crystal bells,

Into rich harmony his song swells.

From the chalice of soft velvet lips

He kisses sweet bewitching nectar.

With every kiss from those lips he sips

Scent to burn on his Muse’s altar.

His heart and soul sing like turtledove

About his passion and his true love.

When his Muse’s lips his forehead kiss

He follows her to the land of dreams,

Overwhelmed with ethereal bliss,

His entire being with passion gleams.

His heart and soul, like freshwater spring,

Outbursts in song ‘bout eternal spring.

When dismayed by human callousness

Into cool solitude he escapes,

He dreams of a land of joyfulness

Planted with green nectar-yielding grapes.

His heart and soul dream of songs that sooth

About freedom and eternal truth.

The poet’s soul is born out of tunes,

With songs he weaves rainbow like moonbeams.

Varied tales and songs he softly croons

Out of his heart’s rich, colourful dreams.

© P.J. Oszmann (1951 in Hungarian. Revision & transliteration 2003.)