From Laments of a sad man
Dezső Kosztolányi
I am an entry in all kinds of books:
they keep account about my every move.
Some grey and aging form contains my data
where dismal smells of ink fill every groove.
Oh, gnash of teeth, how they have mortified me!
My fetters, shackles are but slavery.
My hands and feet are my members no longer,
my head is but an entry for their count.
I would prefer to live in distant wastelands,
or rot in greasy soil, hid underground,
for I am an entry in all kinds of books
they keep account about my every move.
Transl. Leslie A. Kery