(after Karoly Escher)
A young man with two flowers in his cup
Has turned away across the platform
To move towards two women wearing headscarves.
He is the country I am leaving.
He is beautiful, a beast decked and garlanded,
He stands gently and placidly, tall, slim,
Melancholy, prepared for sacrifice,
A peasant soldier, simple as they come.
Death has half closed his eyes
Ready to devour him at a blinking.
Behind his head the blur of a wagon pulling out.
He seizes one of the women, embraces her,
Presses himselg against her.
As we depart I am tempted to shout
To attract his attention. I can only guess
The occasion of his death, his tenderness.
The Budapest File