Korniss Péter - Erdős Virág: Courtyards - Our Budapest (Budapest, 1993)

He sinks deep, as deep as the springs yield under his weight. He draws his aimless feet under himself, lets the fine leather turn up around the ankles and the instep raiser stick out at the stitches. He lets the leg of the armchair wobble without the stone support. As his hands grab the arms, because they have to grab something, the skin grows almost smooth over the blotches. The tear widens bit by bit, the horsehair stuffing shows under the plush.

He is by himself, with the garden and the danger.

The beast scratches his back, bites his nape but can’t hug him. He closes his eyes and suffers it as long as. Fanfares blare forth, kettle drums thunder. A reflector projects a silver disk on the ground, then lifts it cautiously. He is now surrounded by lords with sceptres, they hold the canopy covered by hemlock over him.

One of them steps forth. On his palm of crimson cushion he offers him an apple. He takes it to his mouth. His teeth clatter loudly against it.

Then the stone to support the chair leg.

He lifts again and again his head ever falling on his breast, he buttons on his nylon cloak with the rosette pattern, takes a pack from his inner pocket and lights a cigarette. Smoke rises. It is growing dusk. And as the vault gently lowers, on his forehead a pale red stripe glows still.

So he is sitting on the border of his realm’s remains. And while ivy runs again the round of his fabulous realm, night sucks up his trees and bushes, the white flowers of the kingcups. But he is still sitting on his throne to keep watch and sinks deeper and deeper as the springs yield.

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