The last six days only two poems have come out of my chest,
How is it possible I became this low in Budapest?
My ongoing quest for an unknowing territory to conquest
But not with guns and greed, only with humanist poetry
Which may help slaving nations become free
Somehow, I lost my best in Budapest
Then I thought I must have a rest.
This is a six day searching holiday and is for me a testing time
Do I deserve this as a well behaved tourist who has no recorded crime?
I write awry poems only for wicked people at the night time,
And write about other people at the right time with a better rhyme
Budapest is a nice city; but my inspiration is too low.
Even so, searching for an earthly inspiration where else should I go?
Nevertheless, young even some old ladies following the fashion, men follow them
How the iron becomes copper, copper becomes gold; gold becomes a diamond-gem.
I measured in the street, some young ladies’ height up to two metres tall.
They told me “Why don’t you do useful things by measuring castle walls”
For this reason I have to climb up to the top of the hill to reach the town hall,
If I get permission, I will show how I can be useful for this suffering nation.
As I do see the city is active with finance and plenty armful romance.
Tonight I am going to a jazz club; I might recover my lost inspiration
If not with a lady: I will try my best to get on with the English dance.
Without writing poems on any holiday I will be lonely,
Otherwise I cannot describe a friendly lady as lovely.
What made me puzzle, writing two poems in the last six days, it is too little.
So with two poems for six days I cannot be settled.
But there is an alternative way; even it is a brand new theory
I could take Budapest to the inspirational court before the eyes of the Lord.
The charge is: What have you done to my best – you lost me Budapest.
Once you’ve lost your best, it will never be easy to love the rest.
Poetry is earth, heaven, reality philosophy, enigma and fun.
It’s like ladies fashion, impossible to put on it a ban.
This will do until recovering my lost inspiration
Then, I will write a soulful poem for this peaceful nation
Somehow I know now people in here are not poetry lovers
Nevertheless in here I will build my poetic, romantic Babylon’s tower.
Then I will welcome in it only poetry lovers
The rest of the people may go to Moony, money or gossipers’ towers.
Whilst European Union rules like a soft horned bull
Who needs Kremlin’s autocratic, degrading rule.