We were looking up to the sky
leaning out from your downtown window,
but behind the window bars of Pest
no man or beast was visible.
Church bells were ringing somewhere
and the world turned a few degrees with us again.
We were guessing the names of the stars,
of the reefstorm in the unlit ocean,
as if by naming them we could weed the shadows out.
Finally we stepped out under two constellations
shaped as vodka bottles. The street-lights
were darkened in the city, and the shadows on the walls
froze in their tracks. Rain started to fall.
Our chest, like a circus animal,
bent to the curve of the
stream of rain under our feet.
I squeezed your hand,
or you squeezed mine,
while on the crimson ribs of the roofs
the stray cats took their leave.
And from our hands interlaced,
from this force with an unpredictable direction,
all the celestial bodies rose up
to light the path for the early morning arrivals.
Mónika Ferencz, tr. Juana Adcock
Published in Hungarian in Hátam mögött dél (Scolar kiadó, 2017)