The Houses of Parliament in Budapest

I felt like posting a Hungarian poem in today’s blog. I know that the English translation is only a pale reflection of the original Magyar. Note, however, that the translation is from George Szirtes, whose name is a guarantee of quality when it comes to turning Hungarian into English. The poem is by Szabolcs Várady, whose unpronounceable name reproaches all of us well-meaning Yankees. It is called:

Quatrain

I stand in a hole between Will Be and Was
waiting for things to change but nothing does
The dust will mount forever. Rain? Unlikely.
Thunder perhaps. But not here, not precisely.