/ a whip-poem / Oh wounds, Oh my purulent wounds! Heal! Behold the Hungarian-homeland: where the double-bladed nazi-knife is hiding in „the minds” – whether they need it or not – where carnation is smelled by te orange ones and oranges gobbled-up by meat-eaters, where the – so called – „left-wing” is marrying with the „right” and where the red-bloods get mixed-up with orange – relatives... ...where the existence is only a lamentation, ... here we are: without a mother, beeing feed in a many-star death-row raised by nutritions: that gets us blue n' yellow: hungarians: just wanders – wanders, on their lands... Oh, we, hungarians, Oh, how motherless we are! Our past and our future? wawe the flag and be proud: we torn like paper, and shrink like cloth we cry and dispute and fleeding our home, and in shame – or perhaps in arrogance we – hungarians slowly sink... – oh God! oh Lord! Our history? – is a mistery only a tale-like: funeral-speech... Oh hungarian Mary! And uur swords that used to covered in blood? if we had it once - well we swapped! with new Hungarian mood! and now we cry it, to the sand – with a dark felt-tip pen our sorrows: we complain when and who has ever hurt us, and where has the One pulled us and well, – let's bee just honest – how many terrible thing can possibly happen to us... after an other new thousands of years, – will we survive it? – maybe, maybe it would be better, to forget all of it... Oh wounds, Oh my purulent wounds! My borders! My mountains! Heal! Cause to stand out of the weed the only way is to be: weeder, – weeder than any of them, – but in case if it would not work: then be stronger, and be wiser: and scythe the whole meadow in weed! Oh wounds, Oh my yawning wounds – of stink! Heal!
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