Either Michael or Jozef is a marvellous poet; perhaps both are fine poets. Add a little to these lines, to account for untranslatable connotations peculiar to the Hungaian language and culture, and they become poignant to a splendid degree. They make me wish I were Hungarian born and bred so as to read them in their original words and context. But as I cannot be Hungarian, I am grateful to Michael for these glimpses and to Tim for posting them here.
More, please.
G/W
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