The Eighth Tribe, 1976 (3. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)
1976-08-01 / 8. szám
The EIGHTH TRIBE O u HH Pd H S Cfi £ t—I PÍ <1 0 P a My little flute is the branch of a weeping willow tree, Its Tree, grieves in the graveyard; I cut it from above a gravemound, It’s no wonder that it sounds so mournfully. There you were deceased, my dear beautiful star! Your brightness no more will I see. No wonder my world is dark! No wonder I have no desire to live! 00 d Z O > My sheep walk home at nightfall, I walk towards the graveyard, The pale face of the moon rises, My flute’s heartrendering song rises too. My grief will trouble me until, I'll moan my bitterness until: Until one day, my soul, together with the sound, Will fly to the world beyond. By SÁNDOR PETŐFI Translated by F. Szomy Send Form 3579 to The Eighth Tribe—Circulation Department, Bethlen Press, Ligonier, Penna. 15658 NYOLCADIK TÖRZS
