I vomited on the Argentinienstrasse
wracked with bullet pain to the head
but now on Andrassy-ut everything is clear
in the huge trees and traffic
scaled like Paris waiting for Madama Butterfly
huge iron-wrought entrances, decayed landing
and a young woman has brought us roses
through the streets, we live
with her husband in a tiny village

The river's massive energy
uplifts huge parliaments and bridges
in her honor, many people
walk her streets, but only she
is resplendent, replete with laughs,
lavish furnitures, high ceiling, windows,
branch motif, we walk past Liszt's home
and Bartok's, and the school Liszt founded
his pounding practicing infuriated neighbors

A man cuts roses in the evening from a field
to sell the next morning in the city,
but at that time we will be
sleeping on a train to another city
We take everything she has given us
and put it in our poetry, our film,
for there is only one Queen of Pannonia
and she is more strange than salt