Hungary On the plains of Hungary the
bell tower in the distance the wrath
of the last Angelus no one follows on the
land there is no crops but stones
no man and his wife put down the basket and
take off the hat Carefully stick the fork on the ridge It is
customary In the twilight of the twilight, the sore neck is
bent, and the sore neck is concentrated in vespers. Only the man who walks hard in the
dusty fog with his old age and the overflowing death and the skin-filled wind wrestling with the wind . The old horse wears a swollen cap on the heels of the old horse and looks at the chariots of Tszgaon passing merrily. It knows that it can't run even after unloading the empty cargo . The man pacing the ruts on the Hungarian plains has come to the end of the new year. He looked down at two wild dogs barking for aged bones A pure white minaret in the usual place of the rainbow brought a rare crowd of worshippers No drums, no bugles , no one knew when the war started and now what is the ceasefire Or before the decisive battle, the long-awaited decisive battle may not come It will be dark and the wind will always be as strong as it was on the first day Those who can't wait for the Sabbath to leave and return to their homes without water and fire are marching forever on the endless plains of Hungary
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