I wanted to show you this poem yesterday, but my post mixed up somehow, but I think it would be still okay today.
This a favorite poem of mine, from long ago. Yes, it is a Hungarian poem, and this is a very rough translation of mine, so take it with a grain of salt, but I think, you can get the gist of it.
If you are interested, the original, Hungarian version is on the Hungarian blog, just click the link above.
This is all I have to say about Easter.
Sándor Rákos
Lament
What crashing sounds are these, oh, what is this hammering,
like they were felling trees somewhere,
people with axes were flooding the streets, servants,
ugly servants, Caiaphas’ servants, with wicked looks in their eyes,
where were you going at such an early hour?
From the crashing sounds and the badly paced banging, my hung up dishes are
shaking
the water moves around in the tube,
and the swallows are leaving the eaves of our house.
What signs are these, why the sun is squinting, what are
those officers up to?
I am Mary from Nazareth,
sister of Elisabeth and wife of Joseph, the carpenter-
it is morning, and I am standing at the front of our house, my shoulders
are leaning against the gatepost,
this is how, I wait for you, my son, so you will appear at the end of our
street by the olive trees.
Your back is bending a little as you walk, because you seem tired these
days,
but when you look up high, to the end of the long line of stairs,
and recognize me, from my blue shawl,
you smile and your steps quicken.
What is with you, my dear boy,
its been a long time, you were home,
your father and I, we are so worried about you.
Now, all we hear are crashing and hammering,
even the swallows left the eaves of our house,
oh, is something bad happened to you, my dear little son?
With your father, we are afraid for you,
because you dare to stand up to those
who have swords rattling at their sides-
Jesus, my darling little, good son, what business do you have with
Caiaphas?
When you were small, I held you in my arms,
dressed you in a white shirt, only reaching your belly button,
you had such a fine, translucent skin,
one could see the blood pulsing through your veins.
You always wanted the fruits that hung high,
your father couldn’t grasp high enough for them,
you even reached for the apple of the full moon with two hands!
You were like that, even as a tiny baby,
but we loved you very much,
kept you from the cold breeze, because, your body was rather weak,
oh, how hard is to raise a child so sensitive to everything.
Who would have thought, back, when you were crouching in the sand with your
brothers,
that one day you will march into Jerusalem,
with such a glory like none of the kings before!
You see, my Jesus, I should be happy about this,
but my throat is tight, for some reason, and if I look at your father,
I see that he is the same.
We are simple people, my son; we don’t know anything about your things,
we would have liked you to stay with carpentry alongside your father,
he has a difficult time to keep up these days,
his eyes and arms get weaker and weaker and when he gets to old,
to whom can he leave the workshop?
We thought you will stay with us,
even if your brothers flew out of the nest,
you were such a mama’s boy when you were small, and you oved our garden and
house so much!
But did not happen this way, you did not stay home, did not marry,
you did not put swarming little grandchildren into my lap-
I am a fruitless branch,
my offspring will not sprout a new sprout,
my desire for a daughter-in-law and grandchildren is futile if you do not
want them!
Death is lurks around, below the cypress trees,
looking out for the living,
oh, my boy, my dear son, how I would love to hold you so tight,
how I would love to cover you with my blue shawl,
how I would love to draw you back into the safety of my womb,
to hide you from its power!
This is what I think, my son, today, in this early Friday morning,
I run out to see what is this hammering, standing by our gatepost,
don’t know what time is it, because the stupid rooster crows like crazy,
the guard is mute and the Sun is not like any other day.
I should go in, I have to milk the goat,
let out the hens, swipe the courtyard,
and do what I do every day
(because, work is good, that is what numbs the hurt in the poor!)
All right, I am going, however hard to leave the gatepost,
the street, at the end of which you should appear,
the hope to see you from far afar,
I’ll go to tend my hens and goat,
but oh, women are running in the street, waving
they are waving to me, calling me,
I am walking, running toward them, Veronica comes along,
her head uncovered, she’s wringing her hands, her knees are shaking,
I can only see now, that the others are stumbling too, like they carry
heavy weights,
they straggle, and sob, they all cry-
oh, I understand the hammering, the darkening sun,
the prophecies and the miracles,
Jesus, my dearly loved son, its only now I understand you!
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