Let my cross be carved from that tree,
Which have been planted, when I was born,
Let my coffin be made from that tree,
Where my fate has been sealed under its shadow.
Make a bonfire from its branches,
Which will feed my coldened heart once again.
Carve a pipe from its roots that grasp the soil,
Let my free soul fly up to the sky, like circles of smoke.
Its tall branches will be good for scythe handles,
Which will reap, but it's also a weapon of the Hungarians,
Throw its small cuttings to the wind,
Let it carry our words to where they land.
Let new life be born from its one single bud,
Don't let your nation to die, never ever,
In the end, make a cradle from its finest part,
Giving hope of a better future to every Hungarian child.