Attila Jozsef | April 11, 1905 – December 3, 1937
THE POOR ARE THE POOREST
(Aki szegeny, az a legszegenyebb) by Attila Jozsef
If God were a scribe and kept
Plying his pen, all he could do,
He couldn’t write a list of all
The sufferings the poor go through.
Poor folks are the poorest of all,
They add their shivers to winter freeze,
Their spare warmth to summer heat,
Their blues to lazy desert breeze.
On weekdays they stay on the job,
Cares shadow their Saturday night,
Sunday may cheer them but so soon
Monday dawn asserts its might.
And yet inside them live mild doves,
Star-feathered fair singing birds,
Hatching griffins though they’ll give
The eagle folks their just deserts.