When the winter comes, who will still believe
in its cold?

Then through my aunt's yard I'll carry
a bowl holding the steaming
pig's heart over to the pot.
The snow before my steps
lost its whiteness long ago.

There, where the village ends, who does the winter stillness
meet with a precise thrust
and at the little red beech tree
in the rhythm of whose heart
does the peace then fill,
streaming, its vessel?


Orsolya Kalász * audio

Get the Flash Player to see this player.

translated by Donna Stonecipher * audio

Get the Flash Player to see this player.