My Wasted Chance

Now I wont die young,
another one of my wasted chances.
My decisions cant be explained by inexperience,
Im seasoned, well matured for death.
I no longer weigh what would have been wiser
and I no longer am ashamed of myself.
I dont treat the wounds of self-respect.
Theres a growing number of deeds
I wouldnt have done before,
and all is more brotherly and complete.
I regard this body of mine with understanding,
on our secrets walks I touch you calmly.
I gradually forget my fear, see
death as a brave and intimate engagement,
and I am no longer so impatient.
I dont need everyone to love me.
I still know the recurring wounds pain,
and that we finally say farewell, and with us
our language, our final jewel, is buried beneath the earth.
But in the morning I wake up numb and see
the nightmares of the evening as a passing disease.
I am pleased with my eyes growing dimmer and dimmer,
my skins fatigue, my voices fading.
The endlessness of plains replaces the mountains.
It might be terrifying, but I am free


Zsuzsa Takacs

Translated from the Hungarian
by Len Roberts and Maria Kurdi

The Literary Review
Vol. 42 No 2