To wake into the wintry morn’
Without a cough or cold
As a balanced wellbeing
Is already a miracle
And nothing can beat it.
Not the scalding voice of
A spouse
Her verbal antics would throw
Any unprepared person off
The track
But no so a seasoned so called
Husband.
So called as all what binds
Together a shaky bond
Is the necessity of sharing
A habitat
While it’s impossible to find
Accommodation suitable
To an individual’s need.
There’s a shortage of available
Flats and no reasonable
Accommodation neither for
The young nor for the elderly
Unless you are a fugitive
Preferably from Syria or Somalia.
Whatever there are injustices
In the social system
With the golden age of prosperity
For all since many years
Turning into a bad dream.
The story of the unrecognized
Artist repeats itself in the midst
Of an enlightened intelligentsia
For it’s important now more
Than ever to stay healthy
And carry on with one’s work
The poet writes
And his readers will agree with
Him.
Are we – famous or unknown –
To produce our art for the
Steady growing mountain
Called trash?
Why would our civilization’s masses
Imitate the restless acts of
Dung beetles?
How do we keep balanced?
zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’18