Csontvary Page #2

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Who was eager to claim the open air

and chased after butterflies.

Who confessed to like the truth

and was never bored by himself.

Who puts love in his craft.

Who searches the future

with his thoughts.

Who broke up with the present

and set sail alongside intuition.

Who every where and occasion

used his heart in confrontation.

There is no place

I cannot glance

upon the sun

or the sentinel stars.

You can ponder upon

truths full of sweets

at any point

under the sky.

And there is no need

for inglorious

even shameful

surrender of myself.

After all...

I still have bread.

I didn't draw

I didn't paint

I just observed, staring at

the monumental beauty of nature

the deep and peaceful

rhythm of feeling

the most beautiful

nature-music of rapture...

I made trips in

all directions

seeking the beauty.

I took delight in the immeasurability

of the large-scale perspectives.

Paint me, Mister!

Paint me!

Escape with me to the mountain,

they can't see us there!

My body is

like the Virgin Mary's!

Don't. No. No!

Because they say I am a whore.

Because the devil is in me?

I just want a man...

Look, Mister,

what a body I have!

Look here!

I want a man.

A man!

A man!

A man!

A man!

A man...

This is the way

of the adulterous woman:

eats, then wipes her mouth and says:

- 'I did nothing evil.'

- Arrived, Mister Artist?

- Yeah Mr. Harkaly.

- Well, you?

- Yeah, me.

After you.

Arrived just now or

were you already upstairs?

Just now.

Fantastic.

Where from?

The mountains,

from the waterfalls.

I from the baker,

fresh bread just arrived.

Smells nice.

Not even love can play forever -

it has to drink from the wine of sorrow

and be reborn in a tear.

- Are you tired?

- No, I am not tired.

Well, then...

Back to the waterfalls, right?

Let's go.

The clocks...

hiding their dreams

in the spine of their skirts

briskly pace along.

So short is our life

a mere few days granted for love...

- Do you like it?

- Oh, yes, very nice colours.

Your water is silent

quiet your splashes!

Viola, you are praised

by every sound!

Oboe, flute, cosmic aula!

But most of all, by me

my little mullberry.

Like the wind of May

messenger of dawn

streaming with sweet flavor

mixed of grass and flower

limp wind which

just pounced my forehead.

I feel the feathers fanning

recalling the smell of ambrosia...

And I hear the Word:

Happy is who gained

such mercy from the sky

that his heart repells

the love for fine flavors

his hunger dedicated only to truth.

Excuse me, I would kindly ask

for some salt and pepper.

God, I am so... confused lately.

Come, Annuska!

- Mom?

- Yes?

I'm so sorry...

I tried my best.

I even sent him a telegram...

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