For Miklós Radnóti

Your verse is so magical, Written so well, I still adore its music And drink from its well. After the war your town Gave my grammar school The honour of your name, Yet history is cruel It ignored your fame. Your woman waited years For your return in vain And you dreamt she stood At the russet hedge again. And like in the old days, You wished to marvel On her leg above the ankle At the delicate blue vein. My teacher told me That buried underground Your notebook of poems In a mass grave was found. The fascists who shot you At war’s end in the head Did not know that you were The greatest living poet In your beloved land. Had they known it Oh, they would have been glad To hang you instead.