All of the materials, texts and images,
I have copied from an excellent site dedicated to Radnóti Miklós.
From Bulgaria thick wild cannon pounding rolls,
It strikes the mountain ridge, then hesitates and falls.
A piled-up blockage of thoughts, animals, carts, and men;
whinnying, the road rears up; the sky runs with its mane.
In this chaos of movement you’re in me, permanent,
deep in my consciousness you shine, motion forever spent
and mute, like an angel awed by death’s great carnival,
or an insect in rotted tree pith, staging its funeral.
30 August 1944. In the mountains.