Anna Szabó T. poems in translation
Anna Szabó T.
“Those who write, are silent.”
Knocking through the night. Breathless.
Unravel. Decode. Dig down.
Sow letters to the wind, heave a word, reap silence.
Writing is antilogy. For ourselves, for the rulers.
Hail of knocking. Signs in the snow.
Melted ice. Warmth of machine-gun nest.
Writing is winter talk. Wheel tracks on the
seemingly empty clearing, bloodstain, footprints.
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