Arany János - Győrei Zsolt (szerk.): The trill of the nightingale (Budapest, 2019)
II - „dead bark burning in a hole” - I Lay Down the Lyre (George Szirtes)
And ah, how we presumed to see The light of fame above our tombs: Dreamt country and community Whose hearts might nurture our frail blooms. Thought if the laurel fit there might Be some to crown us - a vain goal. Where are you life? O life in spite - Where is the springtime of my soul? My orphaned song, what are you now? The soul of ballads long deceased? What ghost comes forth to mop and mow? Whose spirit has the grave released? What eyelid weary for the night...? What word at some dry waterhole...? Where are you life? O life in spite - Where is the springtime of my soul? I lay down the lyre. Such dead weight! Who cares for songs now anyway, Or loves pale flowers that bloom too late Once mighty trees have died away? The tree being dead the folded bud May briefly flourish on the bole, I sense your doom deep in my blood O vanished springtime of my soul.
