My soul is clanging like a cimbalom gone mad;
My heart indeed is joyful, but by its pangs unnerved,
Tossed on waves of music: how was this prize had?
Petőfi as my friend I have surely not deserved.

This was no mere prize won in a competition…
More than good fortune, it is my divine destiny!
To be the winner - how could such be my ambition?
I nearly gave to the fire my humble poetry.

The prize itself dazed me: how much I had won!
And then what extra treasure came along to shine?
It reaches to the soul of my soul, I the one
To be the holder of your dear right hand in mine.

You asked me: „what am I?” „A son of the people,” I said.
„Rooted in it, I live by them and for them, belong
To them only, by their fate my own is bred.
And if I melt into song, my lips give home to their song.”

I longed to migrate once from the circle of its embrace,
But the wheel of destiny only tossed me aside.
And as I stole back stealthily, I had the grace
To pick a few blooms from the thorns where flowers hide.

The worries came - they were companions along the way –
I wove a garland, but soon I was by these betrayed,
As we made friends, grew used to each other, I and they,
Who stole my wreath when I had it only half made.

At last a treasure was gained - domestic happiness –
All the richer that its guarding will be no task –
And on the banks of Iza a friend’s faithfullness:
For what else could I hope, what greater blessing ask?

As if a comet landed within my narrow walls,
Your letter burns, lighting up my inmost soul.
Oh, tell him in my name, if Tompa ever calls,
How fond I am of you, and of him with you - one whole.