A woman's outlines
are not a boundary.
They blur and blend
with desires high or low.
She lets you in. You gaze at her.
She pervades you. Ebb and flow.
One movement lives for ever
in the sepia's light brown nuances.
is veiled by the viewer
as he casts furtive glances.
The blue. Academy, rhapsody, moods.
The green. The ripened sap-green of the field.
You know the blood, it's yours,
deep in her musing
Van Dyke brown eyes concealed.
She's beautiful as the saints are,
lights up her face.
A smile is hiding
among the sombre signs of grace.
...she's all set now.
She has flesh, she has blood,
a face where all the whites collide.
The sight leaves you without a doubt:
there is no death
that could take her for a ride.
Orsolya Karafiáth translated by Peter Zollman