Lőrinc Szabó: Lunar eclipse
A lake in summer night. Poplars in dream.
Spider is wriggling ’round on net of beam.
The old poplars are dress’d in argentine.
Our charmed world alike a feast does shine,
It’s soundless play: between midnight and one
our tip of cone of shade has slowly gone
across the Welkin, sent a word of hope:
There are events also beyond the globe.
The star but shines and spreads with shining face
its soft powder of dream into the space.
The roads do run though don’t move, stand alone.
From us is climbing down the black-shad’d cone.
A farewell crows also the nightingale.
Cricket music to dream swoons like in tale.
The softest butterfly does perch apart,
the Moon does flee into the neighbour’s yard,
and there as silver light it further plays
on polygonal cobweb wov’n by fays.
Translated by Ottó Tomschey