Hungarian sabretache plate

Revolving around the inner realm,
oblivious of old Dunakeszi,
marching towards another idol,
another image nonsensical,
I won’t lose my way to Komádi
neither will the village stand lonesome.

Psalms uttered, sung out loud from the womb,
arise, and shatter the cold limbo!

Dread and fear are now crashed to the tomb,
except high on holy Mount Horeb.

Larks will not mourn for my enemy,
pristine as it was. Caught in the web
every time I dared open that door
until I grasped the innuendo
crawling in the elusive marrow,
herding everything into its den.