The New Hungarian Lamentations of Laszlo

/ a whip-poem /

Oh wounds,
Oh my purulent wounds!

Behold the
where the double-bladed
is hiding 
in „the minds” – whether 
they need it or not –
where carnation
is smelled by te orange ones
and oranges
gobbled-up by
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: 
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!

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!

Leave a Reply