InanimatePragmatist
There is nothing for your genetics.
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2025
- Posts
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Here is one of my personal favourites.
Lyrics.
Now the mirage is ringing in the fire of summer on the Rhone,
Fires are burning, the light is blinding, the world is shining.
The wine is already ripening on the tops of the hills,
All the old acacia trees are bridal bouquets. The
silk of the lawn is green gold, the lake is blue silver,
On a quiet night the tárogató softly cries.
There, where those four rivers roar,
There, where it is good to suffer,
There, where so much precious blood was spilled
The wind tells a tale of a millennium.
The horn is humming on the promontory of the ancient castle
Honvéd stands on the Harghita,
It soars to the holy mountain of Transylvania,
The Hungarian Turul bird is flying back.
There, where those four rivers roar,
There, where it is good to suffer,
Where it laughs over a wonderful fairy lake,
And the sun looks at its fiery face in it.
Where legends are born, the song flies
The horn is blaring, the ancient wild one,
And where the blue spire of Transylvania stands
The Hungarian Turulbird flies humming.
There, where those four rivers roar,
There, where it is good to suffer,
There, where so much precious blood was spilled
The song rings, Kolozsvár returns.
The horn is blaring on the promontory of the ancient castle,
Honvéd stands on the Harghita, The Hungarian Turulbird
flies humming to the sacred spire of Transylvania, It flies back.
Lyrics.
Now the mirage is ringing in the fire of summer on the Rhone,
Fires are burning, the light is blinding, the world is shining.
The wine is already ripening on the tops of the hills,
All the old acacia trees are bridal bouquets. The
silk of the lawn is green gold, the lake is blue silver,
On a quiet night the tárogató softly cries.
There, where those four rivers roar,
There, where it is good to suffer,
There, where so much precious blood was spilled
The wind tells a tale of a millennium.
The horn is humming on the promontory of the ancient castle
Honvéd stands on the Harghita,
It soars to the holy mountain of Transylvania,
The Hungarian Turul bird is flying back.
There, where those four rivers roar,
There, where it is good to suffer,
Where it laughs over a wonderful fairy lake,
And the sun looks at its fiery face in it.
Where legends are born, the song flies
The horn is blaring, the ancient wild one,
And where the blue spire of Transylvania stands
The Hungarian Turulbird flies humming.
There, where those four rivers roar,
There, where it is good to suffer,
There, where so much precious blood was spilled
The song rings, Kolozsvár returns.
The horn is blaring on the promontory of the ancient castle,
Honvéd stands on the Harghita, The Hungarian Turulbird
flies humming to the sacred spire of Transylvania, It flies back.
Anyways Jk Iove you no homo
