János Áfra writes poems. He writes about art he stumbles across or sometimes for an artwork he gets asked to write about. He visited a piece by Urs Fischer called ›You‹.
That we are here tears
the light from us like night
tears light from our eyes. Here
in the most oppressive sense.
Cut off from everything that before
was one. According to our faith.
Your own scent quickly dissipates
after birth, only desire remains
so that you come closer to every
acquaintanceship separate from you.
This is why the crook of the knees
move convulsively. This is why
the cold hand trembles and the spine
curves in the confusion of turning back
after childhood has dug
a hole around you.
Then at the bottom of the pit
you sift the debris.
Volition compels you to search,
the thickest book,
which has not yet been written.
War on the map of power,
on the skin. The aesthetics of exhaustion,
as soon as the water begins to steam
from within you. And all
of a sudden, with eyes
open wide, you die
as if never before.
Translator: Thomas Cooper