Once My Age Poem by Kinga Fabo

The photo has turned ripe right by today.
Now it's been found. Its age caught up.
Now it has a bunch of expired

copies of me.
Behold, how they want to get me!
But they expire soon.

I came too early, later
this age caught up with me.
Wish it let me be!

Seizing each other up. Our common pen is too tight.
Did I run ahead?
It thinks it improves me by plastering me.

It stuffs my pores.
Blocks my air.
I'm getting weaker. It lost its way.

The élan is escaping through its own fissures.
What will materialize again, is
the shape, what it would put on: locks.

Thus what is filled in it evaporates.
There are a mere turning back both of my porcelain
bodies: two expired logo'.

In its hayday no one wanted the photo.
Yet time made me pretty
now, when I became a lot of

ready made copy.
As I'm lagging behind.
Once my age, you are passing me late.

(Sharon Stone swaps her legs.
She might catch up with me.
Did I run ahead? How reckless.)

(Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics)