Dezső Kosztolányi (1931) translated by TWP

Crimson Decay

Forest,
out cold, your frost-stung branch writhes unconscious.
You shall die,
crimson decay had cast its breath upon you.
Yet why this merry pomp? Why
do you dress in the
brazen color of
the glorious cardinal, drunken lover,
young wrath, fiery rebellion,
to welcome death?
Is it such a celebration to grow numb, to forget
noisy walkers and thrushes,
sound of waters,
sweet-cheap bells of life?
Is it so good not to live?Are you happy?