Nemes Nagy Ágnes: Vihar
Egy ing rohan a réten.
Ott futnak ők. A vásznak.
Kilépek én, bár mozdulatlan,
Utánuk nem marad
A shirt blows across the field
Freed from a clothes-horse
at the height of an Equinox,
stumbling now above Saint Swithin's Grass
it is the bodiless dance
of a veteran.
And there they go, the sheets
running under the recoil of lightning
in battalion manoeuvres
even as they flee - flags, sheets,
a top-sail, a rag - each
ripped to its own hissing sound
on the open green field
diving and rising
their movement unveils
the winding sheets of mass-graves.
Without moving, I step
outside my contour,
a somewhat more transparent runner
body taut behind among them
like a half-wit whose birds have flown
like a naked tree whose birds have flown
calling them back with my beckoning arms -
And now they fall.
And with a motion white-winged, wide,
the entire flock takes wing as one,
takes wing like an unmoving image
takes wing like the bodily resurrection,
eternity called up
from the water, at the crack of a gun.
Nothing left in the field but that beckon
and the dark green colour
of the grass. A pond.