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Vizitündér Sneletile

Waterfairy’s Born

Speaking with God

You speak to me, my God

I avoid the answer

You help, though I’m restless -

Only after my abyss.

I should decide, not only about you

Still, I’m silent.

I balance on a knife’s edge -

You are watching me

You speak and fall silent,

You speak and fall silent,

And wait ...

I’m only silent

I need another language,

Not human

Perhaps music, I could use music

Perhaps the notes will enable to distance myself,

Perhaps the tune will bring me nearer

Perhaps the sonance brings harmony,

Perhaps the low humming will reach you

Who listens and waits,

Then speaks and waits.


He is gone ...

But the clarinet stayed here in the corner.

Many nights I’ve been waiting

To look into the inner soul of sound,

To travel to Serbia, Macedonia and Moldova.

Music is a mystical communication

With the divine

As if Jesus, Buddha, Allah and Krishna

Got together to talk.

Each drumbeat, each sound evaporation is another world

And these worlds fold into one another

Till the most beautiful sound-harmony is born:



Do not ask where the Vizitündér comes from.

From the mountains of Gyimes,

The land of the fairies,

From India, from the trail of the Gypsies,

From the Holy Land, from Ireland?

From the Carpathian Basin,

From Tibet or Mongolia?

I was born from the whole of the Universe

From the same Energy

That ignites the stars

And spins the Galaxies.

I was drawn, by the power of the sun,

From the womb of the Earth,

And that’s where I’ll return to

When my story is ended.” *

I have no race or rank

Only the infinite.

* Niall R Walsh’s play: THE WIND, Act.Sc.III

The Philosopher

for James Rose

Nietzsche is my lover

He wears a checked shirt and glasses

He goes running in the forest every morning

He reads Heidegger, Kant and Tibor Fischer

He is as pure as a wild flower,

Like a young boy from the mountains

Raised by the fairies of Transylvania.

A lonely genius writer

Surpassed human love

With no earthly desires

Like a Tibetan monk.

Still, the shaman cries out

For your female counterpart,

And the journey is yet to be travelled.


A Couplet

Thought upon thought adding up to a life

An ordered silence - windows swinging wide.

translated by David Wheatley

published in Dublin, in College Green literary magazine in April 1996

On the Bark of Time

I live in beautifully dying, decaying love

In the hollow of trees

In an endless peace

The unpealable bark of Time crumbles away

Humans, having so many pressing plans

Finally falling out of Time.

I have grown into the leaden-weight

Thought of your absence

And the seconds I only count

To throw them with both hands

To you like scattered stars.

My racing carriage is fire with water

Yours is a swaying boat

Its paddles as open peacock feathers

Resting on the rocking river’s foam.

With both hands look for the unpealable bark

Till I for the words

To keep all that’s been lost by Time.


The witch was melting the fairy flakes

When she put some oak into the fireplace

Then the flames started dancing

So the pieces were heavily burning.

Storm woke up carrying the snow

It was brooding with saying ‘no’

None of the creatures were to clean the ground

As I had seen, they wanted to turn round.

And the season never fell over

The silent smell of the rim’s juniper.


I surrender to you and let you resonate each of my bones

Only I know why

I refuse to utter it.

The worn out, subjected, dragged into dust

The most precious word on earth

It’s been hurting for a while

The weakly indifferent coldness

Of your soul’s emerging solitude

Only now I understand you

As your passing bird.

I Would Rather Be a Bird

I would rather be a bird

Who has no home

I would rather fly away

Have no place to go

Be so lonely

Without anybody

Just fly, fly, fly ...

I would rather be a bird

Who has no country

Sometimes hungry and thirsty.

I would rather be a bird

Without friends and duty

Belong to no one

And never say sorry.

Silent as a rock

Strong as an oak

I would rather be a bird

Who never had a cloak.

Winter Continues

Now it is winter again

The witch with the flakes

Is sleeping in my soul.

The creatures on the ground

Never utter a word.

The window I look through

The tree white with snow

Peace and the bliss of solitude

Silence, transience are near.


My fox in the thought

The red little fox

Touching twig, leaves

Of January waste season

Gathered on empty street paths

Moves slowly, mildly

To embrace the sorrow of my youth

A song of inspiration floods my soul

All the wordly hopes

Commemorated within a sigh and breeze

The toughest air of freeze

Till a vale of light catches

On a gleaming face

The disappearing glee of ace

Joy which is rendered

Just a spill of emotion -

Now filed away.

Disease - Piration

No real forms of poetry I know

The words in brackets

They come to my brain

I go my way.

Haven’t studied the methods

By which it is possible

To float in the heights.

Where was I?

Sitting at my table

And write nothing

Nothing for days.

On Friendship

Rest in the peace that no-one on earth

Could so mournfully ever get

Listen to the story of how,

How I lost a friend.

I left a place in my eyes

For the dry tears that never existed

Being so withered and lashed

Beyond deceitful wishes

It is possible to float

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry

I don’t read the paper and the ?

For many a year

As to avoid facing the truth

It is necessary

Without it, it is even worse.

I’m suffering of short, passing feeling

And of having a swallow mind

And wit which sees no further

And is too spent to reach out in the midsts

In peaceful solitude which

I bore with pleasure and honour,

Which does not hurt as people did.

One green leaf is more valuable

Than a hateful friend with mockery

A ship not built on rocks but sand

Collapses like a piece of corn straw.


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