Joe Váradi József Attila-fordításai

THE STROM APPROACHES
(Jön a vihar)

The storm approaches, ebon-crested,
irate judges, black-cloaked and vested,
lightning bolts sever skies tempested,
like pangs of an afflicted mind,
velvet murmur stirs close behind,
jasmine petals shiver in kind.

Apple blossoms — branches yet intact —
racing with time to unfurl, extract
their ephem’ral wings — what a fools’ pact!
All along this grassy down’s tilt,
wretched blades of grass droop and wilt,
mourn the sun’s descent into silt.

Trembling at the dreaded verdict’s heft —
thus the wee ones their example set,
bear humbly the pained life you have left,
with a song so soft that even
the grasses will sense you, within,
and take you for one of their kin.

MAMA
(Mama)

Mama’s been on my mind all week long
as I start and stop, amble along.
Creaking old basket held to her waist,
she’d climb up to the attic with haste.

I was rather honest, back then,
I’d scream and stomp, in a tantrum.
Leave the laundered sheets to another.
Take me to the attic, I’d beg her.

She kept hanging the clothes, silently,
she neither scolded, nor glanced at me.
And those fabrics, bright, fluttering whites,
danced and floated to dizzying heights.

I wouldn’t whine now, but that time’s passed,
I see, at last, what powers she has —
tracing the clouds, with her silv’ry hair,
blending bleach with the bluish-grey air.

Fordította: Joe VÁRADI