Translated from Hungarian.
I’m simply skin all through, even
when you slice crosswise, dice me cubewise.
Make mincemeat of me! It’s still the nothing
you’re cutting which I don’t contain, for there’s
not a thing within. Being simply all skin.
Skin’s skin, even skin of skin’s skin
even . . . I’ll stop when skin-skint.
Thick-skinned bragging’s not for me. Besides,
it can’t mean anything to you. I can hear eggs
being cracked . . . Sacrilegious electric light
pierces egg’s night. So, your cock’s tread
splashing hand doesn’t tremble
beating away with a fork at the Seed?
—Enough out of you, mouth! The fat’s already sizzling.
Executioner, do what you have to: into the fat with me,
Symbol Gobbler-Upper!—just have me go glassy
according to taste.
Egg, old pal, don’t be afraid
of passing away in such an age, when man
to Nature’s voice no more inclines,
when mute already are Brook and Grove, and into
quintessentially unclean Four-Footed Beast’s melted
fat are cast ultimate things
—our kind.
Better for us (rather than assaulting stopped
ears) with faltering hearts, to be as one
in the omelette’s great martyrdom.
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