I can no longer bear the aggressiveness of poetry,
and I do not wish my deeds to be investigated.
I would like to be an opened knife: the inscrutable.
A razor-wielding murderer. With a tongue oozing flattery, who drips
poison into your ear. Who makes you mute, so you cannot
scream. As the guards turn into the corridor,
I count five steps. Now is the time to cry out. Before
they throw themselves on me. Then in the stillness, there are no sounds.
Translated from the Hungarian by Ottilie Mulzet.
© Szilárd Borbély