Fáklyaláng, 1965. október (6. évfolyam, 1-10. szám)
1965-10-23 / 10. szám
2 FÁKLYALÁNG minent omnibus, qui fib em fortiter confitentur. Agricola Tluttgartais amisit patrum sulcos l|erei)itate possessos et iubigens pane quotibiano ex bolbos — carcere ab sibera exclamat cum berbis propljetae: messis abiit, aestas finita est, seb nos non rebempti sumus! 31 u Liiutgarta bepopitlata curtae non mobeut parbulos, ittfatttes enim uascituri iam sub corbibus matrum interficiuntur. 3!n ®ransulbauia erepta ^Hitttgari be templis, scholis bomibusqtie expelluntur et prol|ibeutur uti lirtgua materna iit precibus quotibiauis. JHaiores nostri mille annos bittiirabaut repressuri aggressiones barbarorum ©rierttis, befeusnrique fibem, culturam et populos ©cribettlis. JNclutuus occupare alienam terram aut subigere alias gentes, solum iustitiam et libertatem besiberamus, ut bantum rebire possimus, perceptis berbis tristibus ©bibit poetae: intolerabile est carere patria! Sanctissime fateri ©euibtts nixi globis supplicamus: noli oblibisci multorum laborum patriae nostrae, Bäuugariae! 3ltt bia memorabili Ijistorica ilfestra bucat Llos ©muipoteus, ut per missionem 33estram restauretur iustitia, fulgeat Crux et triumphet rex QJljristus, libator muubi! Jfumillimi filii Cestri, qui pro libertate ^äungariae bimicabamus anno 1956. GLORIA VICTIS “Home of the nations, world at large! We’re running short of breath: A thousand years of suffering Now calls for life or death.” M. Vörösmarty FOR THE PEOPLE OF HUNGARY We do not speak of a Hungarian Revolution. We speak of the Hungarian agony. From the moment when the Communist regime in Budapest fired upon an unarmed crowd and turned its quarrel with the Hungarian people from a political quarrel which it could not win into an armed revolt which, with Soviet aid, it could not lose, the suppression of the Hungarian resistance was inevitable. The world seemed to feel that it had no choice, short of atomic war, but to sit back and watch, in horror and disgust, the brutal, methodical destruction of an angry people by overwhelming force and conscienceless treachery. It is understandable, certainly, that we in the United States should feel shamed by our inability to act in this nightmare. Nevertheless, we should not forget, in all the suffering and pain, that we owe the people of Hungary more than our pity. We owe them also pride and praise. For their defeat has been itself a triumph. Those Hungarian students and workers and women and fighting children have done more to close the future to Communism than armies or diplomats had done before them. They have given more and done more. For what they have done has been to expose the brutal hypocrisy of Communism for all of Asia, all of Africa, all the world to see. So long as men live in any country who remember the murder of Hungary, Soviet Russia will never again be able to pose before the world as the benefactor of mankind. The Hungarian ded have torn that mask off. Their fingers hold its tatters in their graves. Archibald MacLeish Quoted from the Life's; Hungary’s Fight For Freedom” Edition. Sunday, November 4. 1956. — MORNING Radio Free Kossuth 0420 “ATTENTION! Attention! Premier Imre Nagy will address the Hungarian people: “This is Premier Imre Nagy speaking. Today at day-break Soviet troops attacked our capital with the obvious intent of overthrowing the legal democratic Hungarian government. Our troops are in combat. The government is at its post. I notify the people of our country and the entire world of this fact.” (Announcement repeated in English, Russian' Hungarian, and French.)----------•-----------Salvador de Madariaga: Epitaph in Budapest Ardent in the night, my young blood dreamt Not of the fire-eyed maid, her firm breasts, her womb, tense with the promise of life: bur of Buda maimed and of Pest stained by the boot of the vile slave-driver. And ardent in the night I swore no longer to live ivith my eyes on the Barbarian s boots, but with my forehead and eyes level with his eyes and his forehead, crossing with him thoughts and glances of steel: or higher still, as high as the top of the tallest tree in my land even though / died in the struggle, and my forehead and eyes sank as low as the deepest roots of the most deeply rooted tree in my land . . . and now here lie my forehead and eyes and my young blood and my memories of the fire-eyed maid, feeding the sap of the spring which one day will make Buda rise again and Pest again flourish in the sun which will see my eyes turned into two violets hidden in the green grass, and will shine on my forehead turned into a wavelet on the clear Danube. Evening, consume before my grave your flaming candles. Dawn, pour over my grave your virginal tears.
