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Syndic Literary Journal

A Stone Thrown Away

Written by Attila Balazs

Translated from Hungarian by Elizabeth Csicsery-Rónay

Narrated by Bill Wolak


I learned to breathe consciously

as one who is master of the

complex machinery

which it carries beneath its skin

for a long time instinctively

then ever more consciously

ever more organically

ever more strictly

stepping beyond the boundaries of asceticism

at times the tangled strings

of self pity

wind into regular skeins

forbidden and secret things collected

like grass in the receptacles of lawn mowers

jamming the stalling motor

and stopping

the rotating blades

moist with green blood

then too

when your dress like

a sudden shower

fell to the cool floor

then like a dove with broken wings

your bra landed next to it

you left your panties on

so I should slip them off

rather clumsily


with slightly trembling fingers

as if I were trying to

slip off your skin

it was so hard

the synthetic piece

was so tight

then suddenly you stood there

like a cold statue

alien for a moment

then cell by cell I reconquered your

delicately trembling body

which lit up

like a pink lamp

it grew hotter

it pulsed and writhed


I saw you only with my cells

I closed my eyes

your touch

coaxed noises that

only I could perceive

from my tuned-up body

I realized

that you were a master of music-making

the concert without an audience

I don’t know how it ended

for I died a little

selfishly I fell asleep

I turned off my consciousness

in the morning

you observed delicately

your touch brought peaceful sleep

to the baby that cried inside me

and resignation

to the lad crying inside

and ashamed of his solitude

your embrace was like

a pit coming out of the flesh of the fruit

a feeling separate from the body

blood coursing outside the body

gently drizzling

red rain

in the silence that grew around us

like the slowly tightening grip of a python

before you disappeared finally

in the dark and cool

warmth of love

you left so that the vacuum

of your absence sucked up

my mood

loneliness like a sad nanny

consoling and protecting

closed in its calloused hand

in which definite lines

showed the way

like lines painted on asphalt

at the busy airport

the stone thrown away carries the warmth

of the hand

but you never know to whom

it will give a

breath of energy

though tiny

it nevertheless






like a bolt

like an artificial heart

which love tries

to make circulate

in those

who are clutching at nothing

they don’t raise their heads

toward the light that filters

through the chinks and crevices


Attila F. Balázs was born in Târgu Mureș, Romania. He is a poet, writer, translator, editor, and publisher. Although born in Romania, he writes his poetry in Hungarian.
Elizabeth Csicsery-Ronay is a writer, poet, translator, editor. She studied philosophy at George Washington University, then modern languages at the Sorbonne, Paris.





Compiled/Published by LeRoy Chatfield
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