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I've watched the movies of my ages,
Even those that were before,
I've read books of teenage feelings,
I've read about leprechauns.

The world has become an endless series,
The scenes repeat in every lore,
There's no book that could surprise me,
The same stories in every store.

My eyes are saying they are full of seeing,
They are replete of colours,
Even my mouth is fed of disagreeing,
They both wish to remain closed.

While my eyelids are feignedly sleeping,
While my lips are firmly closed,
The darkness is calling and appealing,
But the movie colours shout.

The films keep shooting everywhere,
Like an ever writing Molière,
But do the plays interest me more,
Or not seeing them anymore?
21.04.2019
Many questions have been raised on my nature
The most of them by myself, but also by the people;
The funny thing in the huge number the questions assume:
They can be answered by one word: Vacuum.


From those questions, some may please me
Like "What art are those that may lead thee?"
Or "What limit has been reached by your knowledge?";
They are rare but I like when I'm asked on my storage.


While there are questions I barely like
Like "Why are you a person whom we barely like?"
Or "Why are you so different and not alike?";
Let's answer them by a single strike:


My nature is like the nature's nature:
There's no place where's no creature;
So, what I'm fighting is what the nature's fighting,
Where is darkness there must be lighting:


Vacuum, I'm all fulfilled with emptiness,
If there's ten planets I need a twentieth,
I wish to fulfill my eager to be fulfilled
Even if by the pressure of that knowledge I'll be killed.
29.04.2019
A colorless, eye-shaped smoke in the sky is my eyes,
That, instead of seeing, creates new skies,
New ground, and on it a new population.


None can be sure about my subjective realisation,
But what I see is more like a simplification
Of a horribly bad-mad world.


I myself am not sure how the colours are whirled;
The colours of dream- and under-world
As clothes in a washing machine.


Myself is supposed to whirl inside that machine,
Among the instinctive desires and unclean,
Inherited demands.


While my true existence that no one understands
Is beyond those dark-coloured commands,
Just dwelling for observation.
01.07.2019
Where's the home of the stranger if not in a nameless grave,
Providing him with peace and silence;
His gravestone seems blank, but it tells thousands of untold stories
About his damnation and condemnation;
Living among people without feeling anything what runs that nation
Is painful in life, and even afterlife
When he knows it right that that name on the grave is quite unwanted,
And won't be visited, only haunted;
Haunted by thoughts and doubts of the self's unsaid words,
And the surrounding world's empty words
That had been waited by the stranger so eagerly to utter something;
The empty words should have uttered something,
Something that a stranger never could utter correctly:
Home.
01.08.2019
Hurricane, hurricane, hurricane,
Inside it, houses flying with gardens,
Different elements and temperaments.
Cows, cars, and pennies are flying,
Green, gray and grim trees are flying;
Sights pop up and fly away.
Inside it, there's me,
Sometimes in houses,
But mainly flying.
It's a hurricane,
Hurricane,
Again.
11.08.2019
Like a frozen stone
Without a glance being blown,
I got thrown away.


I was flying in silence,
Then, I moaned up without resilience
On a brick.


Through an eaves,
I fell into the stream's waves,
Unheard, unhurt.


Frozen imprisonment
Where the jailer is the detachment,
Not somewhat cold.


The spring is sobbing,
Its tears are smoothly rushing,
Pushing to a land.


Among stones standing,
Patience is suffocating, ending,
Drying crying.


Smooth hands,
Promising their hold never ends,
They disbanded.


In a new stream,
Me and solitude in a team,
But it's all fine.


Sleeping is the only way,
Not seeing when we're thrown away,
Again, again.
Translation of my old Hungarian poem, "Kört kör követ".

03.08.2019
The world could remain gas and fume,
The woe could remain lonely doom,
The words could avoid the plume,
The wilt could avoid the bloom;
If the womb could be my tomb.
14.09.2019
As in villages as in big cities,
As in classrooms as in societies,
I'm alone with my strange personalities.


The eyes, the smiles, the frowns, the clowns,
The hardships and their ups and downs
Have no affect on my daily rounds.


Even the precious words are empty,
No mean defences, no more acting gently;
No more need to fake my misery intelligently.
28.09.2019
How many times I betrayed myself for two pennies of loneliness?
The act is so old, and after time, poverty is the best teacher,
But there are evergrey examples that never change;
I am one of them, for ever strange.


Did Judas' tinkling silvers burn brands into my hands?
Or by any chance, I am himself, suffering through centuries,
Living my own betrayal against myself and fans;
Just as I sold the prophet for the centuries?


Is there any chance that this world were real, all the happenings?
I truly suffered through histories and left behind all blessings,
Tormented by living and imagining;
I forgot everything about me.
15.09.2019
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