Being lured into the butterfly-hunter’s snare
was purely intentional. The intentions of a body
that desired what was beyond it. Savouring the
anonymous violence which now could be perpetrated,
the body having become a mere object. Suffering
like an animal. But the soul is free. To know
that dying is almost a joy to the physical being
when its spirit is a mere pawn. “Who are you”—Psyche
asked of the stranger. “Bitch!—I’m going to fuck you,
so just shut up and lie down”—came the answer.
And darkness was all around them, as if they were in someone’s mouth.
Because language is like night-time. Moist,
an indecipherable series of grunts. Pure dread, and
inchoate visceral shrieking. It is inhuman.
Translated from the Hungarian by Ottilie Mulzet.
© Szilárd Borbély