What good if you exist and I disown you?
What, if I praise you and you don’t exist?
Left-over God. Your wayward fascination
binds me no more. I tired long ago.
Some of my friends have just died of starvation.
You haven’t heard. I thought I’d let you know.
What kind of straw did they last clench their teeth on?
What kind of skulls sank to what kind of dust?
A few odd crumbs might have been within reason,
some small miracles would have been august!
I long to see their lips again in smiling,
their soft, round chins that were ground underfoot;
I long for Rome, - for beautiful, beguiling
gardens and for rich, luxurious food.
The whole poem can be read here: In English and in Hungarian as well, just in case you're interested.