In the pleated Hungarian Night

In the pleated Hungarian Night

Where the clouds are rippling high

And the moon is burning bright

Rolling silver pale as a coin in the sky

Hear the houses

See the stain of the blouses

Washed in the rain

In the pleated Hungarian night

As Trans-danubian pillars write

Their own blood histories

On the wall

Of them that rise

And them that fall

In the pleated Hungarian night

While the tyres turning tight

See the racing cars, squeal wheels

As they chase stars on their heels

In the pleated Hungarian night

Because the big sky is there by right

 And the plains are without their borders

So men’s brains are free from chains or orders

They can dream big, in the tree twigs

Seen through the sight

Of the pleated Hungarian night