The Eighth Tribe, 1980 (7. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)

1980-03-01 / 3. szám

Pigeő

THE EIGHTH TRIBE

March, 1980

determination. Particularly idolized among the simple people, Petőfi, within months of his death had become the subject of folk tales and anecdotes. The Bach-regime proved powerless in the face of this Petőfi’s cult. Later, in the early 1860’s, the government, not wishing to give fuel to the resistance by open hostility, reluctantly tolerated Petőfi.

After the “Compromise,” a long and vigorous period of revival followed, at least in the non-official circles of Hungary. The March 15th ceremonies gradually became Petőfi festivals. Hundreds of statues were erected, frequently in villages and small towns. The common people simply refused to believe that the merely 26-year old Petőfi could be moldering in a mass grave. Common talk even sent him to Siberia, just to escape the torturing idea of his death. The representatives of official Hungary recognized the poet’s literary greatness and numerous editions of his works were published in Hungarian, also in other languages.

Petőfi has a message not only for Hungarians, but to all men who love and cherish freedom. He believed like Abraham Lincoln did that a world half slave cannot last. He wanted to die in the battle for “world freedom” and he believed in the international brotherhood of men devoted to freedom and democracy. Let us hope that we hear his message now over a hundred years later, for cooperation and understanding in the ageless fight against tyranny and oppression concerning his beloved native country and all nations of the world.

ONE THOUGHT TROUBLES ME ...

One thought troubles me:

To die in bed, between pillows!

To wither away slowly, as a flower

Which is being chewed on by a unknown maggot’s

tooth;

To be used up slowly, like a candle Which stands alone in an empty room.

My God, do not give me such a death,

Do not give me such a death!

Let me be a tree through which lightning runs,

Or which a tempest twists out by its roots;

Let me be a cliff which a sky-earth shaking thunder Topples down from the mountain into the valley... When every enslaved people,

Tiring of their yoke, step onto the plains With reddened faces and red flags,

And on the flags this holy slogan is written:

“World freedom!”

And they shall trumpet this,

They shall trumpet this from east to west,

And tyranny shall do battle with them:

There I should fall,

On the battlefield,

There the youthful blood should flow from my heart. And when my lips sound their cheerless final words, Let it be drowned out by the noise of steel,

The trumpet’s sound, the cannon’s roar,

And over my corpse The snorting horses Should gallop to the achieved triumph,

And there they should leave me, trampled. —

They should gather together my scattered bones When the great funeral day arrives,

And with solemn, slow funeral music,

Accompanied by veiled flags,

They should give the heroes to a common grave,

They who died for you, holy world freedom!

Pest, 1846, December

Translated by Frank Szomy

Petöfi’s farevjel from his home — by Munkácsy