poetry

This is the translation of a sweet poem by the Hungarian poet Miklós Radnóti, who worked in the first third of the last century before he was killed by Nazis during a forced march to a camp.

Undómea Nainie

A, undómion kólime rohtar:

Lakare ar xiéte quilde;

*Lenkie lorde oronti-karinnar

It is extremely difficult to match the perfect iambic rhythm of this beautiful poem, the internal rhymes and alliterations, but it called out to me and I had to respond. I had to cut bits here and there for sake of brevity. Comments, suggestions and improvements are welcome.

Enkenuvanye kenasta i halle oronti, i luini?

Lintie hostar i yéni, ta óla i *haire asinte...

​​​Will I see again maybe the tall mountains, the blue ones?

Swiftly the years pile up, and the distance is growing with them...