walking with your head forward bowed,
with sunken chest to the back stuck,
like a street dog carrying blows.
Ever so often to the left glancing,
As if there was something threatening.
Alas, no, your eyes are empty of content,
the present without a breeze is gone.
With a thin, shaved neck of a lamb
on its way to slaughter
your feet step forward as usual,
obdurate in your time, but not anymore,
since there is nothing to protect anymore…
In your blamelessness no spite against another blow,
that’s how it is, no way around.
And I ask,
Is it you, my beaten father???
A man, who has the upper hand naturally?
But your eyes saw,
what is not for the soul to bear.
And you were there.
Annihilation of hope’s light.
He came, known to me from end of times,
with worn-out trousers of a sapped Pole,
large in size,
stopped by me in his grim humbleness,
and I know, he understands without words.
He stopped and said –
my name is Mercy
in Hungarian accent
and I screamed Mercy !!!
Holy words as if unheard passed my ears
But the compassion of my crushed father
For babes buried in mass-graves
suddenly penetrated into my heart deep
more and more until I could not bear it.
Yes, without a doubt,
this is the Mercy of my father…