Flower seeds on ruin wall

The verse world of BALÁZS BOTH's new volume moves across borders. The western end of its physical realm is Sopron, which has been a place of residence and work for decades; and the southeastern boundary line is the Hungarian-Serbian border section, Csikéria and its surroundings. Of course, he pushed the boundaries of his spiritual world much wider: it included Villon, who stood in the marketplace, Arad, consecrated with the blood of heroes, Marina Tsvetaeva, transported from Moscow to Tatarstan, George Faludy, who returned home from Toronto, and the cherry-blossoming Japanese atmosphere. Incidentally, the fine arts, which had their own cycle, came with nine poems: through one of Cézanne’s still lifes, we find ourselves in the Musée d’Orsay in central Paris, while the next poem flies to Rome, where we admire a statue of Michelangelo in a church. But isn’t it precisely recognizing heavy, authentic poetry that it moves across the border, independent of Chiceria and night patrols? That he respects the rules but deviates from the designated path to tread his own path? How do you approach the designated limit without fear? The lyric of Balázs Both is just that. Balázs Both proves himself.