In Hiding

I look at the mountain from the window,

it does not see me.

I hide, I write a poem,

not that it matters,

and I see the old grace. It is useless.

As before, the moon cuts into the sky

and the cherry opens.

May 9, 1944

Translated from the Hungarian by Stephen Berg, S.S. Marks and Steven Polgar, from “This Art: Poems About Poetry,” edited by Michael Wiegers

(Copper Canyon Press: 168 pp., $12 paper)