1797
5.335
1.xii.24
spirit of Árpád
visits my dream
sword shaped to an enemy neck
it wasn’t exactly writing they had
the iron head
the will of wood
as if an axe to all
thirsty yet for blood
but whose?
all horses bow to his
set the stubble field to fire
then there will be witches
an empty belly drives all on
the moustache is more than the man
a thousand years survived to us
but think of the thousand before
a leaf like winter falling
the words are well and truly lost by now
in the dream
I wrote all of this down
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