In the Church of Marosszentimre
Dust falls on our heads, venerable plaster
thus we sing our cherished Sion;
Mice scurry underneath the bench
and from their hollows, old owls beckon.
There are ten of us. This is the congregation,
the eleventh the preacher himself,
but we sing for the hundreds not with us,
that dust falls and plaster is cracked,
and in the attic the bats waken –
and a worm-eaten beam or two comes loose:
Our eleventh is the orphaned preacher,
our twelfth is naught else but the Lord.
So we sing, the few who remain
– the Lord punishes those he loves –
and they sing with us, from beneath the floor,
the whole time-uprooted host.
--Zoltán Jékely, 1936
