What does King Edward, the King of England do?
What is something no one should undertake lightly?
What happens to the hawthorn on an autumn night?
We all know the answers. If there is some common ground among us, this is it! How lovely! There is an anthology of poems in our heads. Some people know less, some know plenty, but the core of this knowledge consists of the same verses. Time makes it rusty. Stanzas, lines and adverbs all fall away, sometimes even the name of the poet. But we still stubbornly persist. That anthology lives on in ourselves, somewhere deep inside. It is at the point where we start from scratch, which determines our attitude towards our mother tongue. Some people continuously expand upon it, others let it fade away. Yet, by all means, this is an ember that can rekindle a fire, if given air. Let’s try. Let’s dedicate the stage to the communal memory of poetry.
The performance cites 100 well-known Hungarian poems.
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