Have no mother, have no dad,
 have no country, have no God,
 no cradle, no winding sheet,
 no lover, no kisses sweet.

Haven't eaten for three days,
 my head spins, the body sways...
 Twenty years! My might, my gale,
 twenty years are now for sale.

If there is no customer,
 sell it to Devil in hell.
 With a clean heart, I will steal,
 If need be, I'll even kill.

They'll catch me and hang me up,
 with soft earth cover me up,
 and death-bringing grass will start
 from my beautiful, clean heart. 

Translation by Frank Veszely in Hungarian Poetry: One Thousand Years (2023) Altona, Manitoba: Friesen Press, pp. 156-157.

NOTE: This poem got Attila expelled from university and preemptively scuttled any possibility of a career in academia. (Hence, my affinity for it. Any poetry that extracts such a cost is probably excellent poetry.)