the river of the boundless river, all longings flow into you, the underground currents reveal the hidden face of the poet, janus pannonius still feels good after long centuries, the glassmaker cuts the diamond, or rather the porcelain, for the astonishing image of the river - and your blue hands rise to the quizzical from the depths. You are identical to yourself, here, now and nowhere else. you are neither mute nor deaf, though your voice is not heard. your spirit is fertile, which does not need to measure itself by greatness. you are somehow hidden by the river itself, your mind is covered by the image of time, which springs from the living water. you are not a dream and a mirage, but you are eternally moving. you are a gesture unlike anyone else. you are unique, you are the river.
the eyes of the river are your name, it is a trace without a trace, the blue, red and gold ornaments of perfect lovemaking, these lace patterns weave a solemn shroud and design a sacred space, a yarn painted all the way to the gothic heights of the basilica of st peter and st paul, even though the latter is disputed as an unfinished tomb, long since disappearing with the tramp of the golden horde. the underground waters gurgle and rest in the depths like cedar stilts, preserved by the marshy soil in the densest world of proximity and its repetitions. when I put my ear to the ground, my ears are filled with the sounds of promise. a river flows beneath the catacombs, and its name opens up a space of freedom like the breath of wild horsemen.
a pentecostal city of temples and the oblivion of the eyes of the river that torments Csontváry, whom the river without a river loves like the glow of a white manastir. in the night from afar, I think of more than the city of pentecost. in the deltas of the rivers of the danube and the drava, in the shelter of the river basin, race the turks, the mongols, and the wildness of a poet in the transformation of a philosopher. in the basin of all the rivers, the green eyes of thee are there, the river. the name of the river is the gift of otherness. as I leave the holy city of the beş temples I lean towards the river – depression or the tilt of the hand? the river, your eyes return me as I leave and I grow in the midst of the basin of the vicissitudes of time and I do not turn into a statue. I grow like the cedars of Lebanon, transplanted into the solitude of the divine nature.
the siege of the river's eyes, glowing from the sun's rays one day in szécheny square, the hand of eternal peace in the restlessness of existence touches you in sopianae and merges with the name of the river of invisible underground waters. I hope we meet again like time flowing with the river. Whether I am confronted by the avars or the huns, whether I am attacked by all the barbarians, I hope that we will see each other in these pastures that are continuously being written and erased, when the river and this river are flooding, when a common history is dying in the struggle of nearness and distance somewhere in a secret and unknown place between the balaton castle and the castle of baranja. the bite of the fire does not wipe out this memory of happiness, even after centuries of silence.
on the barbican, drinking jerusalem wine with my orthodox bride and friends whose faces disappear to celebrate the river. hidden is the poet's face in the memory of the eyes that take you over - or is there a hope that flows out of oblivion without a trace into the city of peace and helps its mouth into the blood of the eternal gift, as the river of the boundless river flows serenely on. the hand of the eternal gentleness of the eyes of the river in the restlessness of existence touches you in sopianae and merges with the name of the river. Your gaze reveals the nobility of the roman aqueduct, when you hear the pechjut you smell the ancient incense and hear the word again. I go away and heraclitus says, you cannot step twice into the same river.