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Krisztina Tóth, from New Order: Hungarian Poets of the Post 1989 Generation

On the Nature of Pain

Which, fundamentally, cannot be fathomed.
Some don't say anything, but — in a bad case —
just stare dementedly while rocking that way
and this way to an inner rhythm;

while others stand up, knock a chair, and leave un—
steadily, they don't turn around (in fact they
do, but not physically), and just their back stays,
caught in the picture frame, long after quivering;

they don't ask for a light, ignite themselves, nor plan
some daring feat involving rope and rails;
they walk across the bridge and just look down...

...How should I have reacted? Glacially still,
reached down into my bag and drawn
a gun on you, like in the films?