Kuburan Suamiku
Aku merobek widuri kapas dari rumput di samping kuburanmu.

mungkin kau injak hamparan rumput itu menjelang kepergianmu yang terakhir,

menarik duri dari celanamu, mengagumi bunga ungu menawan.

Alangkah jauh kau berjalan, lewat tumpukan jerami terbakar

dan rumah-rumah kosong, lewat mata perempuan yang menatapmu

lalu memalingkan muka. Aku yakin kau memimpikan beranda yang teduh

di rumah, lebah-lebah beterbangan di taman, selai plum yang baru kumasak mendingin

di dapur, sebuah surat panjang berdiam dalam saku mantelmu, sebuah puisi

tertulis di bagian belakang surat edaran iklan minyak hati ikan kod.

Teman baikmu, Miklós Lorsi, ditembak di sampingmu,

peluru mengiris dagunya saat ia mengistirahatkan biolanya.

Andaikata kau, Miklós Radnóti, berbaris dengan unit berikutnya kau masih hidup,

seperti puisi-puisimu – puisi-puisi yang tidak dimakan

cacing tanah, cinta setegar widuri dan sukar dibasmi.


My Husband’s Grave
I ripped a cotton thistle from the grass beside your grave.

No doubt you stepped on them on your last march,

pulled the spines from your trousers, admired the lovely

purple flowers. How far you walked, past burning haystacks

and deserted houses, past women who looked at you

and looked away. I’m sure you dreamt of the shady verandah

at home, bees flitting about the garden, my plum jam cooling

in the kitchen, a long letter safe in your overcoat pocket, a poem

written on the back of a handbill advertising cod-liver oil.

Your dear friend, Miklós Lorsi, was shot beside you,

the bullet slicing into his chin where he once rested his violin.

If you’d marched with the second unit you would have lived,

Miklós Radnóti, like your poems—poems the earthworms

did not eat; love as tough as a thistle and as hard to eradicate.