Hedley, Leslie Woolf: Postskriptum: Mađarska (Postscript: Hungary in Serbian)

Without politics other than freedom
the teeth of politics chow us to bits.
Tanks celebrate our tombs
tumbling down this momentary house of cards
built on the liberty of rooftops.

Cliches of death dangle from our trees.
We become slowly dying men
hanging on to hands of a monster clock,
trying to postpone its striking hour.

Never having had this freedom
we sample it on burning boulevards,
while murder is shared with poisoned bread.
Cordite paprikas our food.

We blunder into comrades we have never known.

When surrounded by cannon the spirit creates
a louder thunder. We rise above ourselves,
but Europe stands by watching history
as though it were immune.

Tomorrow these avenues will be scrubbed,
schoolbooks replace our guns,
prisoners locked away into frozen forevers
of Siberia.

Now for us the winds wail and swim away
like newspapers sinking deep into the Danube. 

Svaka politika osim slobode
je politika koja s kljovama trga.
Tenkovi slave naše grobove
koji na krovove građenu kulu od karata
trenutaka slobode rušili.
 
Otrcane fraze smrti vise na našem drveću.
Pretvaramo se u polako umiruća tela
koji se u kazaljke sata monstruma hvatamo
da bi odložili čas otkucaja.
 
Nikad nismo imali ovakvu slobodu,
od nje uzorke iz plamtećih bulevara uzimamo
jer pored ubistva otrovan hleb nam nude.
Paprikaš od baruta je naša hrana.
 
Susrećemo nikad znane jarane.
 
Duh kad je okružen kanonadom topova
glasniju grmljavinu stvara. Sebe smo nadmašili,
ali promatrajući povest Evropa samo stoji
misleći da je nepovrediv.
 
Avenije će sutra biti oprane,
udžbenici zameniti oružje,
zatvorenici su u smrznutom doveku
Sibira.
 
Sad povike vetrova se čuju i poput
potonulih novina nestaju u dubini Dunava.