I am the son of King Gog of Magog,
I’m banging doors and walls to no avail –
yet I must ask this question as prologue:
may I weep in the grim Carpathian vale?
I came along Verecke’s famous path,
old Magyar tunes still tear into my chest –
will it arouse your Lordships’ righteous wrath
as I burst in with new songs from the West?’
Pour in my ears your molten liquid lead,
let me become the new Vazul of songs –
let me not hear the new songs you have bred:
Come, tread me down in furious, evil throngs!
But to the end, tortured, expecting nothing,
the song keeps soaring on its new-found wings:
even if cursed by a hundred Founding Fathers –
triumphant, new, Magyar, and true it rings.
(translated by Adam Makkai)