József Attila: Woodcutter (Favágó Angol nyelven)
Vágom a fát hűvös halomba,
I'm cutting logs, then pile aligning,
gnarls in the timber, squealing, shining,
hoarfrost falls on the wings of my hair
it tickles as it's touching me there -
and velvet-soft my moments run.
The axe of the frost's glinting up high,
sparkling the earth, sky, brow and the eye,
swish of the dawning, light-slivers fly -
another cutter grumbles nearby:
'tis bole I cut and get the twigs.
Hew capital, don't yammer again,
for every splinter don't hiss with pain!
If your strikes at fate fall close, they feel,
the lords of the plains will start to squeal -
meanwhile the broadaxe is smiling.