Let me begin my own poems with the translation.
This is a poem by a man named Ady,
may not be very well-known in America,
but most Hungarians regard him as their great poet,
their Whitman.
He died in Paris in around 1920, about the same time
that in fact that Vallejo died in Paris, equally penniless.
A wonderful poet.
"Neither descendant nor lucky ancestor,
neither relative nor acquaintance, I am of no one.
I am of no one.
I am, as every man, nobility, North Pole, mystery,
strangeness, and a distant light, a distant light.
But oh God, I can't take it anymore!
I would like to reveal myself so that you may see me,
so that you may know me.
For this, everything- self-torture song-
I would love to be loved and to belong to someone,
and to belong to someone."