IMCA: Istvan Rozanich

Name: Istvan Rozanich
Country Of Origin: Hungary
Country Now Residing: Hungary
Title: In the land of the clouds

In the land of the clouds we dwell,
Yet our lives are made pallid and plain
Our bread ruined by the rising mist
Stealing up from the valley’s well.

And Lord, it is so hard to earn
Our daily bread; the palms have lied,
Our fate is to sweat with no feast days
Sadness and death is all we learn

And sorrow will kill, as will the rain
Beating its death march on the roof,
And as a last mango leaf falls
I dream of ghosts in the cane.

The clouds come, their soft tendrils stretch
Stealthily towards me by day and by night,
Their bitter taste forced down my thought
Turns my sad song into a sick retch.

This agave hill is our damp prison
And loss is all that can grow here
On this hill of lost Europe; lost ghosts
Who will haunt whoever will listen.

Some come seeking home, a new world;
Others come seeking work – money or gold
I come carrying nothing but sadness,
My wife, and two children – a boy and a girl.

But with a will: a plan to go back,
Even a return to a stretched earth.
If my life then should be but autumn ruin
I would still rebuild on the land so black.

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