Читать книгу Magyarázni - Helen Hajnoczky - Страница 11

Altatódal

Doll, this altitude

holds the night close to the dull moon.

But here, gleaming like pitch,

we’re home again.

In English: peace attends the breeze.

Angels watch you tumble from the trees,

swaddled in nightlight,

aching for daybreak.

In Hungarian: the peppers and carrots

and onions take up flutes and fiddles,

flailing stalks and jiving roots,

they leap into the pot.

Instead of waiting for your branch to break,

you’re ebbed to sleep by a simmering cauldron,

the English of your mother’s song,

Hungarian of your father’s.

The nightlight dances on the wall

like a pepper set for the soup.

All to tell, not too dull.

You sleep.