Prologue

Today, I had my second Hungarian Art and Culture class. For homework we were assigned to read several poems written by famous "Hungarian" poets. One of them was very remarkable and I feel would be a good addition to this blog. The poem is called "Prologue" and expresses the end to romantic ideals as the result of war (in this case, the 1848 Revolution).

Prologue
By Mihály Vörösmarty

I wrote this when the sky was still serene.
When blossoming boughs beautified the earth.
When mankind laboured like the humble ants,
When spirit soared, and hands were hard at work,
The thoughtful mind alive, the heart in hopes,
When peace could dry her tired brow at last,
Presenting that most glorious reward,
The happiness of man, her noble aim.
All nature celebrated, everything
Benign or beautiful, came out to feast.

Delight and hope were trembling in the air,
Expectant of the grand inauguration,
Addressing all the world in lofty phrases
In tones to suit a better, new creation.
We heard the word. Its sound reverberated
On high and in the deep. For but a moment
The mighty universe had ceased rotating.
Then all fell silent, lull before the storm.
The tempest broke, its blood-congealing hands
Were lobbing human skulls into the sky,
Its feet were wading deep in human hearts,
And life was wilting in its baneful breath.
The torchlight of the spirit died away,
And on the fading forehead of the sky
A lightning etched the otherwordly lines
Of hostile gods in black, bloodthirsty temper.
The tempest blasted, bellowed like a madman,
A rabid monster raging at the world,
And where it went, along the bloody way
The curses of a butchered populace
Are rising from the steaming hecatombs
And devastation rests her weary head
On grey incinerated city ruins.
It's winter now and death and snow and stillness,
The earth turned white;
Not hair by hair as happy people do,
It lost its colour all at once, like God,
Who on the sixth day, crowning his creation,
Gave life to man, the godly-beastly mongrel,
And shattered by the grim monstrosity
His sorrow turned Him white and very old.

When spring, the makeup-mistress comes again,
The aged earth may take a periwig
And find a frilly frock of daffodils.
The ice may thaw out on her glassy eyes,
Her perfume-scented, painted-on complexion
Pretending youth and faking happiness;
Ask then the aging, wrinkled prostitute
What has she done to her unhappy sons?

[Peter Zollman]