Magyar News, 1997. szeptember-1998. augusztus (8. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)

1997-12-01 / 4. szám

Gyula Illyés:

Where there’s tyranny, there’s tyranny not only in the gun barrel, not only in the prison cell,

not only in the torture rooms, not only in the midnight shouts of the guard; there’s tyranny

not only in the speech of the prosecutor, pouring like dark smoke, in the confessions, in the walL-tapping of prisoners,

not only in the judge’s passionless sentence: “Guilty!” there’s tyranny not only in the martially

curt “Attention!” and “Fire!” and in the drum rolls, and in the way the corpse is dragged into a hole,

not only in the fearfully whispered secret news

through half-opened doors,

in the finger, dropping

in front of the lips, cautioning “Ssh!”

there is tyranny

not only in the mask-like expression

firmly set like iron bars, and in the mute screams of pain within these bars,

in the shower of silent tears pouring from horror-widened eyes;

in the sound of the car gliding softly in the night and in the way it stops at the gate;

in the silence when you feel: a strange ear

listens on the phone when you say: “Hello”;

not only the telephone wire is a Laocoon mire: trains, planes, railroads are fetters and tie-ropes;

there is tyranny

not only in the cheers of men upstanding

who cry “Hurrah!” and sing,

not only in the tirelessly clapping palms,

in operas, in trumpets,

in the braggart statues of tyrants

on the street comers

just as mendaciously loud,

in the bright colors of galleries, in every picture-frame, even in the painter’s brush;

because where there’s tyranny, it’s there in actual presence in everything,

in the way not even your god was in olden times;

there’s tyranny in the nursery schools, in paternal advice, in the mother’s smile,

in the way a child stammers to a stranger, in the way you look around before you whisper;

not only in the barbed wire, not only on the bookshelves, but worse than barbed wire: in the paralyzing slogans;

it is there

in the goodbye kiss, in the way the wife says:

“When will you be home, dear?”

in the “How are you’s?” repeated so automatically on the streets, in the sudden loosening of the grip of a handshake,

in the way

your lover’s face freezes, because tyranny is there in the amorous trysts,

not only in torturous interrogations, it is there m love confessions, in the sweet drunkenness of words like a dead fly in the wine

for not even in your dreams

are you alone,

it is there in the bridal bed

and before it, in the dawning desire

because you only believe beautiful what once has already belonged to the tyrant, you have slept with him when you thought you were embracing your true love;

in plate and in glass, it is there in your nose, your mouth, in daylight and darkness, outdoors and mside

as if windows were open

and the stench of death flooded in,

as if in the house

there was a leak of gas;

if you talk to yourself, it is tyranny that questions you, even in your imagination you are not free of it;

above you the Milky Way’s different, too: it’s a border zone where the light sweeps, a mine field; and every star is a spy hole;

the swarming heavenly tent

is a monstrous forced-labor camp;

for tyranny speaks

out of fever, out of the peal of bells,

out of the pnest in the confessional, from the sermon,

church, parliament, torture-chamber are all theatrical stages;

cs-