Arany János - Győrei Zsolt (szerk.): The trill of the nightingale (Budapest, 2019)

III - „His voice, once fine and heady, still a grumble deep” - Downhill (Mark Baczoni)

Downhill

Evening's come. A black raven's wing Brushes on my window-glass,

Just as my soul is lowering,

To ponder upon the past.

Looking back now, as does a cloud O'er the country that it's crossed:

Once covered by a sombre shroud,

It's verdant now, free of frost.

Happy years! If indeed you were Happy, flowing by so fast,

Let me wander over you, fair Flowered hills of all that's past!

And even though both gripe and moan, It's true, from my mouth arose Life was still lighter by a groan - the future my faith's repose.

Now faith is turned to silent doubt And the farther on I hack,

The more the lights around go out - And there is no turning back.

No longer climbing, as one might - It's all downhill utterly:

Wading into a stream by night,

Minding each step gingerly.

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