GPOY: Kicsiny falum ott születtem én…
By my violet-eyed little sister
I sent home, saying I’d be coming,
that I’d do some work on the fences
and put the rose-bushes to bed.
I heard that my mother baked some cakes,
sieving flour for them from
the bottom of the sack, the drawer’s corners,
and dusted off her floury apron.
She laid the table with a clean cloth,
warm goat’s milk was in the mug,
my white shirt, spread out freshly ironed
shone waiting for me on the bed.
My father sliced tobacco leaves
for me to blow smoke-rings; he’d gathered up
a basketful of dry stalks and shavings
and lit a fire, so I wouldn’t shiver:
white paper won’t keep out the cold.
From early morning they stood at the gate,
shuffling their feet, coughing now and then,
looking up at the sky, then down the street,
they smiled at the boy herding the cattle,
they’d picked a bouquet of numb Michaelmas daisies.
As I didn’t come, they stood there felled
by frost, only their sighs rustling;
the autumn wind was breaking loose
scattering thick rime down their heads.
— Ferenc Juhász, “Violet-eyed little sister”, trans. Kenneth McRobbie & Ilona Duczynska
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