Sixteen
by Sandor Marai
The light askance that blazed up in your eyes
The fog that cloaked my eyes and kept them shut
The glove through which your pulse would dip and rise
The lust that tied my body in a knot
The minute that escaped us with shrill cries
The life without you that is still a life
The hand that switches off the electric light
The word that fails to call you back, and dies.
This poem was translated from the Hungarian by John M. Ridland and Peter V. Czipott and published in PN Review. Sandor Marai was born in 1900 in Austria-Hungary and died in the US in 1989.
by Sandor Marai
The light askance that blazed up in your eyes
The fog that cloaked my eyes and kept them shut
The glove through which your pulse would dip and rise
The lust that tied my body in a knot
The minute that escaped us with shrill cries
The life without you that is still a life
The hand that switches off the electric light
The word that fails to call you back, and dies.
This poem was translated from the Hungarian by John M. Ridland and Peter V. Czipott and published in PN Review. Sandor Marai was born in 1900 in Austria-Hungary and died in the US in 1989.
