THE SEASONS PASS

The seasons pass


A season after the other one
The dreams mix.
Of this uncertainty gets loose the red sun
of the lost horizons, rises the dome of the
Solitude which watches us,
which assists us on the ruins of our
sensibility.
So are born the lost illusions.
Outside, in the life, the gaunt prisoners of
our egoism
drag themselves, the lowered head, the ragged
 body, the soul at half-mast.
Their stumbling steps draw us your curve,
 Ôh, how much cruel,
 how much useless, human hope.

László Mindszenti