Home World Literature I turn sand in my fingers – Poetry from Transylvania

I turn sand in my fingers – Poetry from Transylvania

I turn sand in my fingers – Poetry from Transylvania

I draw shapes in the sand again and again, signs, lines, circles

[author title=”Balázs F. Attila” image=”https://sindhcourier.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/06/Balazs-F.-Attila-Poet-Transylvania-Sindh-Courier.jpg”]Balázs F. Attila, born in Târgu Mureș, (Transylvania) on January 15th, 1954, studied at the Institute of Catholic Theology in Alba Iulia and graduated in Library science and Literary translation in Bucharest. In 1990, he moved to Slovakia. In 1994, he founded AB-ART Publishing (Bratislava), of which he is the director since then. He is a member of the Hungarian Writers’ Union, of the European Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters, Paris, of the Eminescu Academy, of the Writers’ Union of Romania, of the Hungarian PEN Club, of the Writers’ Association of Slovakia; honorary member of the Academy of Sciences, Arts and letters, Chisinau, Moldova, As the author of more than a dozen collections of poetry and the translator of more than twenty books of poetry and fiction, Attila F. Balázs has received numerous awards and prizes for his various literary activities. He received honorary Degree of Doctor of Literature, China in 2018. His works have been translated in 23 languages. He is a regular participant of diverse literary festivals all around the world. [/author]



The broken up remnants of memory

Stir something in me

I catch myself

Trying to put together something

That is not so


And yet which seems the same

Or similar


I see

My fingers trembling

So I stop



So as to relax my muscles

I turn sand in my fingers

Dry dog shit is left in my palm


Then I draw shapes

In the sand

Again and again I erase

Signs lines circles


How can you create order?

In the disorder

There inside?

Order is not neatness

Things fall apart

Things separate

Things club together


Order is an invisible net

It is vulnerable

It can be obliterated





It occurs to me

Am I defined by my name?

Am I my name?

Or is it just a junk that I wear

Which you can’t get rid of


Words like hatchling turtles

Scramble toward the water

Rocked by the waves

In the safety of the water


A huge greedy mouths wallows them

But some of them survive

In the volatile beauty

In the sparkling life-death!


Your lips stiffen


You recite

Villon or Attila József


Your eyes stare into the distance

As if you were angry


You’ve forgotten me


Jealousy stirs

In the rotting nest

That waits for

The birds to return

That had been driven away


In the darkening sky

As if on a projector

Villon adjusts the rope

On his scarred neck


Anyone who’s been caught up in a maelstrom

Knows that progress

Is at the same time a constant return

To the same point




You’re dizzy from the speed

You get tired

You grow numb

And if you look around

You will always find yourself

In the same situation


It’s a vicious circle

Only the heart

Tries to be at in a different rhythm


Only smoke rises erratically

Only the brazen wind blows sand

In your eyes


Not even the root that clings

To the crevice in the cliff notices

The mad Dance of Death

And the shadows

Come to terms with the light

Setting off


Running out

Branching out


You can find everything

On the screen of your laptop

The only thing you won’t find

On the searcher

Are the illusions you’ve abandoned

On the way


Resigned, you reach out a hand

To the black angel


Who takes your fingerprint?

In the middle of the desert


Tired clay



In the sun’s murderous caresses


Finger prints keep

The stiff traces

Of touch




Time hangs from

The clock’s bent hand


The man with the keys locks the grille

He cuts strips from the light


Beauty flows out from the gaps

And the image comes together

On the retina