My soul has seen your face three times.
I have not quoted from the grave: I have quoted from heaven.
Outside you, not a single star shone in the sky: you were the last.
The others fell or went out.
The halo of the timeline shone around your head: this gleaming wreath of thorns worn by martyrs. With a sad smile on your face in the face of glorification, you appeared before me in your holy sorrow like an ambush seraph.
I would have to write with the rays of the sun on the black sky if I wanted to paint your face the way my soul saw it, and even then my hand would not be able to restore this radiance.
You will die in your grave unforgettably. If posterity collected all the stones that lay in a human bosom instead of a heart in a pile, you could have raised a pyramid out of them in your memory. Now a trembling word, a silent reverence for a flying soul, in which lives the blessed memory of your name.
Let your picture be written on the altar of this humble Mausoleum!-296-
The dwarf age has left us small: the light of a running star of our glory, like a hundred running down the sky on a summer night; but we are not unworthy of you: we know a God whom you knew; we worship a God whom you worshiped: holy freedom!
Let me write your name on this altar sheet…
My hand should not tremble…
Lightless desolate night…
Life is silent and graves are ringing…
Not as the night before the sun and the stars were created, but as the night of Golgotha of the crucifixion, when it was not the heavens that shone upon the earth, but the flames of the earth that shone upon the dark sky, and blood flowed from the blackened sun to the earth. The sun is up in the sky, but there is no light. Dark masses of motionless sluggish clouds captured his world… It is noon and night.
Sometimes a minute’s flash strikes the distant horizon: a terrifying, silent flare of lightning from another country. Dark masses of mountains, darkening temples with their tall towers, silent, gloomy fenced cities, black forests, black flat fields, and a black stream sneaking through them.
Then, as if dreaming of the countryside, and in his dreams begin to roar… a heavy moaning sigh travels through the silent world, like the torment of a people dug into prison: a dull thunder, as if a wet ditch falls through the window of an empty coffin , and the unanimous roar of the expiring stream.
These voices were so stifled, buried as if they were coming from the seabed amid this sleepless silence.-297-
There are always more bells starting to ring: the freezing temple psalm will always be roaring, ringing sounds will sound and the rattles of chains; only the long, cold-burning sigh of pain and devoted despair remains so trembling!
Suddenly, as if hell were to open its gates, or as if a fiery fiery furnace tore open its hidden crater: a dazzling light of fire ignites on the ground, igniting a bloody day with its rebellious world, it burns in the glow of a hundred bonfires. The whole starless world emerges as a single image painted with blood: forests and temples, mountains and skies.
Blood in the sky, blood on the ground!
Hosanna, hosanna! Glory to God! roar million lips, glory to God in the high heavens!
The music of shouting trumpets, wild drum noise, roaring bells accompanies this praise of God, as if he wanted to make his way through the skies with wild violence, or to stifle the trembling prayer of the martyr so that God could not hear it.
Hosanna, hosanna! Shouts the slave people, who count their prayer in the eyes of his chain.
And the sky is shut off from the earth with skies.
The sky does not want to see the earth. God does not want to hear his prayers.
Forgiveness and atonement for those who did not know him in their error; forgiveness and atonement for those who refused him in the hours of the temptation; but woe unto them that have laid chains in the name of the people, that have spoken lies, and have laughed behind the altar?
Their prayers are not to be heard.
But the books that the persecuted virtue secretly drops out are numbered; every prayer is written, which leaves the lips of the martyrs of liberty, and the day of the repayment of all debts will come, in which there will be the humiliation of pride!-298-
A barely audible song of weak faint sounds echoes among the sacred roar: a painfully calm, gentle, surrendering song… there pale figures dressed in white burn over the bonfires, tied back with their hands backwards: the flames kiss their faces, the people squeeze stones at their heads with a face raised to the sky, they stand the death of the flame for the word, “freedom!”
How white is the flame where their holy bodies burn, as it shines in the faces of men, in those around them: wild raging masses, fanatical slaves with their images, midwayers between devils and beasts; and to those who hide far away in the ridges of wages; running, but defiantly turning their faces back; persecuted but not terrified; ragged but proud.
The prince also runs in secret: the apostle of the good, expelled from the homeland of his ancestors; plundered, cursed, and driven into the terrible night, out into the cold of foreign countries. A halo of the glory of the future shines around his head, this shining wreath of thorns: the eternal crown of God’s true anointed. His face is faint and sad, like the face of Astræa, who is leaving the land, in respect of his love of digestion. An elbow shines in his eyes, the beggar’s stick of the wanderer instead of a royal wand.
Oh, this beggar stick will take back Hungary’s freedom one day.
There, in front of the bonfires, sits a black man in a chair covered with a racket.
Darkness radiates from his face like the world of fire; black rectangular crown on forehead; holding a shepherd’s staff, one end of which is diamond-colored, incense smells around him, and a mystical song sounds from the lips of the repulsive figures.
He watches the martyr’s suffering with cold pleasure, not a single feature of his cold face changes; but his heart rejoices within him.
The blinded people go there to kiss the folds of their suits.
Murderers, thieves, adulterers, and traitors ignite the fire, rushing to the ashes of the saints, for which the black man forgives their sins.-299-
The last voice also dies.
The army of martyrs completed the glorious testimony: they all suffered; they remained steadfast until the last minute, and none denied the God of his soul.
The blindly eager people fall to their knees and shout:
Glory be to the God of blood sacrifices.
But a thousand voices call back from the darkness of the woods, from the ridges of the rocks:
Glory to the God of freedom!
And a thousand faces turn defiantly to the bloodthirsty world that flutters upon them, with a frightening light, but fearless: their shoulders are pressed by the burden of all torment, of all misery; but their knees do not bend underneath.
The prince also reverses his face, a face not discouraged by this suffering, in the gentleness of which the courage of the lion dwells, radiating from it the world of his soul, the soul which, if distributed among a people, would have made it great forever.
Oh, only one saint of a nation can attack in the life of a people.
Why have more?
The standing star has no place on earth.
He looks back boldly. His big eyes radiate like two flagship stars, to which the silly people throw up mud. He raises his bleeding forehead, raises his pale shiny face, and raises the begging stick in his hand, what he left to the prince of a country, as if to say:
I’ll be back…!
The black man stands up in his blood-red chair, draws his black eyebrows to his deep eyes, the soul of the dwarfed people pale in front of the charm of his dæmoni face. He takes ashes into his hands, the ashes of his martyrs, and where the mercenaries stand, where he does not touch the hideouts by hand, he scatters it on that landscape, and curses it on the head of the apostle of the people.
Curse, curse, curse on you! Curse on the water in which you wash, curse on the air you suck. Curse him, who if you starve,-300-you eat it when you are cold, you put it to your stove, if you are tired, you receive it in your house, if you die, you bury it. Curse, curse, curse on you.
Glory to God in the high heavens, roaring a disgusting hymn singing to the heavens blaspheming.
A terrible echo of the church walls strikes him.
The cross, the dark cross, is raised high, with a bleeding image of God on it, the people worshiping it on their faces.
Why do you show God to the people crucified, bloody, with a bloody face, broken eyes, nailed hands?
Do you want to tell him by this:
Woe to him who wants freedom for the people, woe to him who wants to bring light to the earth! Award for disgrace, award for death.
Im this man here had the spirit of God, this man of God wanted to set the people free and happy: – He was crucified.
See man and tremble.
The devil is on earth! see God dead!
Woe to him who teaches man to love!
Im this dead here was God, the God of love and murdered.
See man and learn to be afraid, learn to hate!
Why don’t you paint God as He opens the tombs and takes those who have learned to love man and his country into heaven?
Do idol worshipers have a more terrible figure who bow their faces in front of a disgusting carved image than yours, who present God to the people as a naked, scourged, stretched-out human figure?
The lord of death clinging to the feet of death!
You know nothing of all this, poor crimson man, you image painted under the crown, of whom he copies the image of the God of a people who cannot bear his soul, his God reigning in anger and lightning. In your name like God-301- in their name, they kill souls, shed human blood, inject with it the altar and the crown to fear them.
They persecute the truth and reward lies.
You can’t know all this. How can you hear the flattering torments of your people at the words of the flatterers? how could you see from this fat fattened army of slaves, who are cute, bright, like peacocks and butterflies, around you, the rags of your people, and the wounds that these rags cover?
Oh, if only once in your dream would a gaze like this look on the misery created in your name, dare you sleep no more with this crowned head.
Poor vicious man!
Who made you so proud? How are you more glorious than others? How are you bigger than others? Get down from the high armchair of your lonely light, and if you are down, lift off your cute hat, and liken yourself to the majestic face worn by a country-persecuted hiding place in humiliation.
Which of you two will be the prince? Is he you?
Poor enchanted man…
The clock has hit! The earth-shattering word of heaven rumbled through the countries. The walls of the borders were shaking back, shaking like beaten dogs.
The day of the resurrection of popular freedom has arrived.
A people humbled from above your knees to the dust, lift up your crooked head. look, the day of judgment has come!
So far you have spoken to heaven, now heaven speaks to you.
And ye that have been judges of the people, come forth. or if innocent blood and the filth of a broken oath cling to your hands, hide yourselves, hide yourselves in the grave; the day of judgment has come!
So far you have judged, now you will judge.
Hosanna! Glory be to the God of freedom in the high heavens!
The whole universe is the vault of a great burning temple, -302-lightning skies that whip the earth all the way: thunder roars.
The earth drinks blood and vomits fire, shaking convulsively in agony under the moving cities.
Behold, from night, where the pine groves on the high ridges and free peoples dwell under the pine forests, a brilliant night light rises: thousands of blazing rays, in white-blue and blazing light, all of which shine in the sky: the brilliant night light of swords.
The flushing of flaming faces strikes along with it, each face being the face of a cherub, freedom and love of love are written in each.
Wherever this flame goes, the walls of the dungeons collapse, the prisoners come out, instead of a chain, they create a sword in their hands, and those who have tolerated listening so far start talking in a gun click.
And false prophets who believed in themselves that they had grown out of heaven cast away the cursed iron rod of their powerlessness and run away pale, to save their miserable lives cowardly, or to remain around their idols, to be buried under their falling ruins.
Woe to them, woe to those who have put their country into goods! the grave is ready for them.
Woe to those who have killed souls. Hell is ready for them.
The flag flies, the sky is staring. They bleed on the royal day. Where everything has been sheer so far, millions of lights are rising in the sky, the existence of which no one suspects.
“God, freedom and home!”
It was written on the flag.
Everywhere, though it was carried, freedom dawned, the traitor trembled, the throne swayed, with stains of innocent blood on its ceiling and chains on its feet scaring the one who did not fall to his knees.
The magenta of this throne was dipped in such noble Hungarian blood.-303-
The Hungarian nation cried such noble books on the stool of this throne.
The hero came this far, made his way to this throne with his sword, and when he got there, the living who faced him were nothing redder than the dead.
He stopped there. He stepped on the throne of the throne with his feet. He pinned his tricolor flag to the ceiling and said:
This is the Hungarian throne. I bow my head because I stand in front of an altar.
But not in front of you, a man with a pale face.
In my hand is the crown of your head, in my hand the sword that crushed it from there, but your anointed forehead, the sky wanted it to be holy over millions, I will not touch it.
You are my king, but I am your judge.
You have punished me without judgment, I will judge you and forgive you.
You hated the people who worshiped you, you hated the Hungarians, you extorted your country to enrich foreign lands with it.
You shed the Hungarian blood at the place of loss, you overturned our laws, you brought the blood institution into the country, you sent foreign usurpers into our counties as Spaniards, you chased freedom, you sent the sons of our country into the sea as galleys; you were a destruction and a storm over this home, in which you should have been God’s right hand.
Wash see what you do!
You have beaten the lions and collected dogs from around you. You became in debt with such bloody debts as to why every drop of your blood would go to a detriment.
But it won’t fall.
The king’s blood is sacred. The Hungarian crown was on your head.
This crown is the idol god of the Hungarians. Angels brought it on its wings, heroes carried it in glorious battles, and the people were dead when they lost their crown. Attached to this crown is the glorious memory of centuries, this crown is the wedding ring of eternal life from the almighty finger.-304-
Whose head is touched by this crown, he counts his deeds only to God; can be good, can be bad: the wand of the law, and the pallosa of vengeance bows before him.
This crown is the hon, this crown is the people, this crown is freedom, this crown is the God of the Hungarians.
You defiled this crown with blood, burned your homeland, killed the people, laid a chain to freedom, and persecuted those who worshiped the God of the Hungarians.
Im take back your crown. The forgiveness of the nation erased the stains from it.
You’re king again.
I will make you, thy fellow prince, whom thou hast cast off thy throne, and who can make thee void now.
I’ll make you king.
Love the people who cannot hate you after so much suffering. You taught him to be afraid, and behold, he did not learn; teach him to love, he understands better »…
The prince spoke and laid down his weapon.
This is how the light shines out after the lightning.
A millionaire shouts a blessing on his head as he returns peace to his home.
… Hundreds went with him when he left his homeland forever for the third time.
Last prince of my country: where are you sleeping now?
He did not even give you a grave in this; a foreign land has seen your hiding face, you have wandered out of your homeland for seven years like a dead comet that does not revolve around any day.
He was put down by a foreign hand in a tomb with a foreign land.
You are forgotten as you are forgotten the place where you rest.
The lion is not born from hyenas.
The wolf learns to eat bread, the Hungarian never agrees.-305-
He will always love whoever swims him against his brothers and tears apart whoever wants to atone with himself.
This race is cursed.
He strives for his strength with his strength so that he can tread his head against his weakness.
It rages inside like Lake Balaton when the air is far and near quiet.
He will take away from himself who gave his blood for him, and give bread to him who will kill him.
Believe in him who deceives and saves his Savior a hundred times…
Last prince of my country, where are you sleeping now?
What cold ground opened for you, who buried it?
I don’t know, but I’m guessing something. May the time be near when it would be good to know where the land that shows graves to the stateless is?