One of my favourite poems (translation below)

József Attila: Íme, hát megleltem hazámat

Íme, hát megleltem hazámat,
a földet, ahol nevemet
hibátlanul írják fölébem,
ha eltemet, ki eltemet.

E föld befogad, mint a persely.
Mert nem kell (mily sajnálatos!)
a háborúból visszamaradt
húszfilléres, a vashatos.

Sem a vasgyűrű, melybe vésve
a szép szó áll, hogy új világ,
jog, föld. – Törvényünk háborús még
s szebbek az arany karikák.

Egyedül voltam én sokáig.
Majd eljöttek hozzám sokan.
Magad vagy, mondták; bár velük
voltam volna én boldogan.

Így éltem s voltam én hiába,
megállapíthatom magam.
Bolondot játszottak velem
s már halálom is hasztalan.

Mióta éltem, forgószélben
próbáltam állni helyemen.
Nagy nevetség, hogy nem vétettem
többet, mint vétettek nekem.

Szép a tavasz és szép a nyár,
de szebb az ősz s legszebb a tél,
annak, ki tűzhelyet, családot
már végképp másoknak remél.

1937. november 24.

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And So I've Found
My Native Country...

And so I've found my native country,
that soil the gravedigger will frame,
where they who write the words above me
do not for once misspell my name.

This black collection-box receives me
(for no one needs me any more),
this Iron Six that was worth twenty,
this coin left over from the war.

None needs that iron ring inscripted
with sweet words, that the world is new:
rights, land.--Our laws are the leftovers;
now pretty gold rings all pursue.

For many years I had been lonely.
Then many people visited.
I'd have been happy if they'd stayed.
You are alone, was what they said.

And so I lived, useless and empty,
and now I see it all quite plain.
They let me play the fool until
by now even my death's in vain.

All through my life I've tried to weather
the whirlwind that would always blow.
I was more sinned against than sinning,
and it's a laugh that it was so.

Spring, summer, autumn, all are lovely;
but winter's loveliest for one
who hopes for hearth and home and family
only for others, when all's done.

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found at : http://www.hungarianquarterly.com/no149/38.html
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although I would like to stick with the my translation of the last verse, loosing the structure of the verse:
Nice is the spring and nice is the summer
but autumn is nicer and the nicest is the winter,
for who's hopes for a fireplace and a family
Is granted only for others.

Of course the English version is not able to reflect the whole atmosphere of the poem, but it is enough to show what its about.

This is the poem of my favorite write. I don't know why, even in my "early days" when I was less then 10 years old I have remembered some of his poems. His tragedy in life and poetry influenced my life. Now that I think of it, I would rather say that I can interpret my life in his poetry and in a way I believe I understand the tragedy of his life, although I have a completely different one.

The first verse is also very near to me, but most probably from a completly different reason. I am a minority in Slovakia. It is quite normal that Slovaks don't know how to write my name down, as our surnames are traditional Hungarian ones (like Szűcs or Török) when they don't even know the letters... and I have a lot of friends who have it even harder then me. If ppl know how to write donw your name, it means that you are somehow related to them. I think this is for ppl in a minority even more important, then for other ppl.