Petőfi The air flowing through the terminal breathes him into my lungs. Poppies grow alongside roads he walked paved now, choked with cars. Even the names of the roads speak of him. He comes to us in the bow of a violin-player with a moustache, with the fox’s dance.
The notes of Greensleeves are not English on his strings. His language screeches patriotism across Heroes Square under red-and-white stripes. Words ordered differently, his poetry gives this country a better kind of love. A face painted on a beech tree could be his— even the children know him. I gently kiss his cheeks. by Pippa Hennessy
Published on Jun 23, 2014
The Dovetail project gives people in Nottingham, Karlsruhe and Budapest the opportunity to tell each other their stories using creative writ...