For a copy of Steep Road

I'm a poet and nobody needs me,

not even if I mutter wordlessly:

u-u-u- no matter, for instead of me,

prying devils will sing relentlessly.

And believe me, believe you me,

the cautious suspicion is justified.

I'm a poet who's fit for the stake's fire

because to the truth he's testified.

One, who knows that the snow is white,

the blood is red, as is the poppy,

and the poppy's furry stalk is green.

One, whom they will kill in the end,

because he himself has never killed.

June 1, 1939.

(Translated by Gina Gönczi, 2003)