Like cleaning a silver bowl years locked away,
the shine of it all tarnished now and spotted:
that's how, Revolution, I clean you.
I won't tell facts about you any longer:
in the October wind the holed-through banners fluttering,
the words fleeing freely, that wild ecstasy,
tanks charging along in terror, their guns firing,
graves for teenagers dug in public squares...
No, what I'll say can be grasped by anyone,
by those not there to see it or born later:
I could never before say the word "Hungarian"
with my head raised so high and with such certainty,
so conscious of my integrity as a human.
I never before had the right to be proud of my nation.
And I'm sure that when at the bar of posterity
are judged the glorious deeds and the pitiful deeds of nations,
I need say no more than "56" and "Hungary"—
and then our countless sins will be forgiven
and if anything survives of us, this will, and will forever.