Kaffka Margit: Csend

I know naught
Of silence that burning secrets wrought
And wherein seeds of brewing storms awake;
Wherein covert promises plant their stake.
Of silence that draws thunderous reply,
Taut cord, that snaps its final ply,
Or which stirs a grand harmony
Of life, joy, and fatal destiny,
Come what may! Come, as it ought!
— of such silence I know naught.

But I do know
Where melancholy’s gnarled vines grow,
Halfwit carrier of a disfigured past,
Endless lonely hours till dusk at last,
Whence mute, impassive shadows depart,
Casting no blame, settle around my heart,
And for the heart to wait — it hasn’t any right —
Tomorrow comes, as the present day arrived,
Minutes beget minutes, for it must be so,
— This silence I do know.