All language subtitles for Utazás az Álföldön 1995ENG

"Journey on the Plain"

In memory of Sandor Petofi

The cellar ramp is steep

A heavy load is intoxication

Slowly I meandered homeward.

Under the load I collapsed.

Collapsed!

I stretched out on the ground.

The blood from my nose began.

If there would not
have been a brick

The blood from my nose
would not have flowed.

Would not have flowed!

I would not go to the cellar, either

During nice days or bad days...

But can I help it
If that wine is so good -

That wine is so good!

My candle flutters dimly...

I am alone...

I walk up and down my room...

In my mouth is my smoking pipe...

My past's apparitions
wave about me...

I walk, I walk, and I watch

The shadow
of the smoke on the wall,

And I think about friendship.

Here I stand in the middle
of the plains, as a statue, stiffly.

The prairie is covered
by a grave-like silence.

Just as a corpse
is covered with a shroud.

Far away from me a man mows.

Now he stops,
He sharpens his scythe...

The ringing does not reach me.

I see only the movement
of his hands.

And now he looks this way.

He stares at me,
but I don't even move my eyes...

What does he think
I think about?

Truly, truly, I am nearly croaked!

My chest tightens, I nearly choke,

And something
chews about my heart...

From you, shadowy world,
it seems I may chug off.

How often I yearned for death!

And now when it is near,
When it breathes on me halfway;

I am now as the elder was
in the story.

Regardless! Whatever death is

Life is worth more than it.

There is peace there,
nothing else;

There is grief here,
but in the pleasures.

Of merriment the blood bubbles.

in a short time
I shall leave joy and pain.

The flower is now
in my button hole.

And if the world greens again

Perhaps it shall bloom
on my grave mound.

And then, good fellows,

You who are tied to me
by friendship's chain

And with whom, together, we kept
Wide awake so many nights;

You may mourn over my corpse.

But I say, my companions,
Do not mourn me;

You know, that with me,
You were all gay chaps.

And mourning would strike
against our normal selves.

Most assuredly, come out to me,

And as you stand above my grave;

Cheerfully sound out
Your dead buddy's songs

Of the happenings
of by gone days!

One who has no sweetheart
Should drink wine,

And he shall believe
That every girl burns for him.

And wine should drink he,
Who does not have any money

And to him will then belong
Every treasure of the world.

And wine should drink he,
Who has grief,

And then, from him,
Grief shall rush away.

I have no sweetheart,
I have no money,

I have only grief;

Thus, compared to others,
I can drink three times as much.

Grief? it�s a great ocean.
And joy?

it�s the little pearl of the ocean.
Perhaps

By the time I bring it up
I may even break it.

The birds travel away

if the weather
Turns to autumn.

(In spring they return again)

They fly... fly... fly...
their wings carry them;

Suddenly you notice
that they already

Drink of the distant blue sky.

They fly so swiftly that one takes
them as disappearing dreams.

What flies more swiftly
Than the birds? Life!

But, unlike the birds,
it never comes back again.

My cloak's fur is worn,

My spurs are rusty, bent,

My cap is not cocked to one side,

My mustache is not twirled.

This, too, is good
for such a sad lad.

One who has been left
by his rose.

She went down deep
into the earth,

So that I cannot even look on her.

Did you know
That the sun is a married lad?

But then this is the big curse
On his head,

For he strains under the load
of a puppet government;

His bad wife gives him grief.

it is natural then,
that the good elder

Does not sow the wine material;

Wine,
which doctors every trouble.

Wine, which scatters
every grief from the heart.

But at home he dares not drink,

For then the fight would be
ready with his wife.

Meanwhile,
when he does his familiar travel

Across the sky;
He waits that

Clouds should dress the horizon.

Then he is not afraid
That his wife may see him;

He hobbles into a
Nearby saloon

And drinks, in his grief,
Like a brush maker!

When the night comes
And the clouds start to disperse

You can see him
with his red face

As he crashes from the sky.

Why do you look into my room,
Inquisitive moon?

The world no longer goes here
As it did in days of old.

Once, when your glance stumbled
into me;

In my heart you saw a flaming life
For which there was no room.

Between grief and joy you saw
A life or death battle,

But you could not see
Grief become victorious.

This was then - if you would now
Look at my face

You could assume that you see
yourself in a mirror.

I am cold and wordless as -
From where my coldness

And wordlessness comes -
The grave yard.

Where shall man finally go?

Socrates,
Who drunk the poison,

And his executioner,
who gave him the poison,

Did both of them go to
the same place?

Oh, impossible!

Yet perhaps... perhaps...

Why can no one see
into the world beyond!

My friends embrace me,

They have pressed their
hearts to my heart;

How happy the soul is in me!

Later I found out:
why do they embrace me?

While they embraced
me they felt out:

Where is this bosom's most
painful place?

That is where they will stab
their daggers...

And they stabbed it there.

Lay down now,
Men!

Or if you move about,
Step softly.

Go about slowly
On tiptoe,

And do not let your lips
Strike rough noises.

You must respect mourning...
For that is sacred..

Night, the mourning youth,
Has arrived.

it had a love,
And that died,

That is why
The poor night mourns.

Quietly it falls
Into the earth,

Sadly it�s tears
Fall on the grass.

Now suddenly
- What is it?

Though sadly,
But still it smiles.

Behold, the moon comes up
From it�s grave;

it is the pale ghost
Of its dead loved one.

They meet
With sweet bitterness,

They embrace
With torturous beauty,

And they talk...

But who knows what?

What no one suspects,
Supposes,

But then it would not be good
For you to know this,

For this talk is an eternal,
Great secret.

Only the lunatic
Hears it,

When the feverish,
Terrible hour comes;

And the dying,
When his life is held

By only one-two
Spider web strands;

One more hears it,
A third one:

The poet,
If he dreams while he is awake,

The wistful poet
Understands

The mysteries of these
Ghostly voices,

But he cannot
Speak of it,

Don't ask him...

He forgets
By the time he comes to.

What happens to the chuckle,

What happens to the sigh,
When their sound's perished?

And what happens to the brain
When it no longer thinks?

And love, and hate,
When it goes from the heart?

I have leafed through history
and I have come to the end,

And what is the history of man?
A river of blood, which

Long ago came forth from
the fog-lost boulders.

And in one length, without an
interruption, flows down to our time.

Do not believe that it has now
stopped. The started flood

Has no rest, not until it
reaches the ocean's lap.

The long river of blood shall
stop in an ocean of blood.

I see terrible days approaching,
such that the world

Till now hasn't seen;
and the present peace

Is only that grave stillness
which follows the lightning

And comes before
the earthshaking thunder.

I see your veil,
you dark secret future,

And lighting the fairy fire
of predictions, I see

Through this veil,
and from what is under it,

I shudder, I am horrified,
and at the same time, I rejoice

And I am wildly happy.
The War-God again puts on his

Armour, and taking
his sword into his hand

He sits on a horse
and scouts the far world,

And he calls out the people
for a decisive struggle.

The world then
will become two nations

and they will face each other:

The good ones and the bad ones.
That one, which till now always lost,

The good ones, will win here.
But the first big battle shall result

In an ocean of blood.
But regardless,

This shall be the judgment

Which God has promised, as it has
been described by the prophets.

This shall be the judgment and
after this life shall begin,

Eternal salvation;

and it shall not be
necessary for us

To fly to heaven for heaven
shall come down to earth.

Dedication:

Life isn't even worth as much

As a broken pot that is thrown
from the kitchen

And from whose sides the old
beggar licks off the dried-on food.

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