Summer 1981 • Vol. III No. 3 Three Young Hungarian PoetsJuly 1, 1981 |

Instead of a Flag

The one who says dear not only to girls—    but to woman-maned landscape, black-ribbon wreathed houses, homeland farms.      The one who can say my people, my people—         but within his memory worldwide-strewn the meadows, within his memory even The Stag burned down.     That it not fall to pieces, not be abased, I embrace, I bind it about, hold fast its every side—on its frontiers that's my blood spurting out.     I'm getting pretty used to it, getting used to my blood's getting loose. Instead of a flag anyone anywhere can hand me on            from one to another. And now suddenly, ecstasy gives tongue and spontaneously starts the song.           Four-cornered headscarf on the roadway, four-cornered shawl-fields.     Yet someone does watch over me: come dawn does carry news of me. The one who says dear not only to girls,    but to woman-maned landscape, black-ribbon

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