A Millenary Poem
„Lunae radiis non maturescit botrus/ The moonray is not ripening
the grape.” From the Prayer Book of Albert Szenci Molnár
And in spite of all: even among torments,
At the cold moonray –
I try to help their sweetness.
As not even this anti-poetical age
can not without rhymes remain.
Every little, bitter grape-berry –
is in itself a victory;
poem, for you, I am soon
into a Sun warm up the Moon.

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