I walk on meadows run to weed,
on fields of burdock and of mallow.
I know this rank and ancient ground -
this is the Magyar fallow.
I bow down to the sacred soil;
this virgin ground is gnawed, I fear.
Hey, skyward groping seedy weeds,
are there no flowers here?
While I look at the slumbering earth,
the twisting vines encircle me,
and scents of long dead flowers steep
my senses amorously.
Silence. I am dragged down and roofed
and lulled in burdock and in mallow.
A mocking wind flies whisking by
above the mighty fallow.
A Magyar Ugar/The Hungarian Fallow
240x380 mm Watercolour, pen, cold gold enamel on paper Made: 2002