Baka István
1948 - 1995
All Souls' Day


A little boy is rushing through the park,
a swing-chain chatters through a windy sigh,
his faded jacket rustles in the dark,
a near-full moon is swaying in the sky.

Beneath the monument there are, alike
to fluff that falls when angels' wings are fanned,
some candles trembling, each a tiny light,
armoured the sky and grey and bleak the land.

As pealing posters smell on rainy days,
so, too, does fear, it's clammy, dank, it's cold,
I cut across the park, its autumn greys,
with chestnuts in my pocket: eight years old.