hungarian Blog and Journals

Abandoned by my words I'm left alone 
or I've become an aimless overflown 
drifting river and in my murky mud 
I drag the flotsam washed up in the flood: 
old idioms exhausted vain pretences 
like broken hedgerows signpost maybe fences. 
Oh would the Master wisely grant the force 
that channels deep, to lead a steady course 
toward the sea, and would He fit the rhyme 
to fringe my verse perfectly every time 
ready for use by me the good disciple, 
(for prosody I'd read His holy Bible), 
as lazy Jonah shirked to no avail, 
and then for three days rotted in the Whale, 
I too went down and shared those deadly bays 
of hot throbbing pain, but for thirty days, 
for thirty years or three hundred, who knows, 
to find, before my book will firmly close 
and even blinder and eternal 
Whale shall swallow my last departing journal, 
my real voice, to marshal every true 
word into action, as He gives the cue, 
to speak up loud as it is right and fitting 
for all to hear (my sickly throat permitting) 
until the powers, cosmic and Ninevean 
will silence me and send me to oblivion.