The wounds of Trianon

Vága, perhaps March 14, 1939 ; ; Szentmihályi Szabó Péter: ; ; The wounds of Trianon ; ; Time has bandaged the wounds of Trianon, ; but the blood still seeps through the wounds. ; Strangers poured into the land, ; some came with weapons, some unarmed. ; Those who came with weapons, the weapons took them, ; those who came unarmed, we accepted, ; with shelter, land, love, ; we did not look at who their mother or father was. ; Forget, good Hungarian, it is better if you forget ; your snow-capped mountains, your treasured cities - ; even your name has been erased from the headstones, ; in your churches faith speaks in a different language. ; Like a farmer who was thrown out of his ancestral home, ; and the robbers and plunderers appear, ; they quickly take down the coat of arms and the cross, ; and the Hungarian is given provisions with a stick, ; the farmer looks back with sad eyes, ; he kneels, kisses the land of his ancestors, ; then he only sucks its dust, kneads its mud, ; a few old writings, faded pictures are the inheritance. ; Time has bandaged the wounds of Trianon, ; but the blood still seeps through the wounds. ; I step onto the Hungarian land as an old farmer, ; and I will never forget his holy words.