Instead of a Tombstone

A poem from the revolution of 1956

Translated from the Hungarian and edited by Watson Kirkconnell



He shyly closed the lids of darkened eyes,
a small red flower blossomed on his breast.
A smile still lingered on his mouth’s surprise
as if at home he slept and loved his rest...

The little hero in the filth is laid
(around him fall his bread-loaves in the mud)
just as but now he paced the barricade –
in vain let fall his bomb, and shed his blood...

He shyly closed the lids of darkened eyes,
a small red flower blossomed on his breast.
Beside his corpse a steaming gutter lies.
The world sings victory, but signs a jest.

Thomas Land

If you have any comments on this poem, Thomas Land  would be pleased to hear from you.