929
why
tribe?
one
pile of me here
another
pile there
I
put on my glasses
already
on
and
my hat
how
much magnification can I stand?
the
sun burns a hole
through
which we can see
I am
a tourist in this skin
I am
a traveller in my own blood
the
thing on its head is the best way to view
one
thing meant this
but
God meant another
the
heroes were all fists
hands
of a held sword
nobody
you could trust
not
a thing but prophetic
I
hide to be a tourist here
fool
not to pass on
trumpet
music
and
here comes a wall
tumbling,
tumbling
the
medicine of pogrom centuries
once
you've learned the secret
all
in over our heads
the
country surviving only in symbols
I
will survive that too
another
blast of the horn
one
skin peels off and I think of a snake
consider
myself as plague of locusts
when
I could be myself
get
together with
we
could start an existence
has
to have been some medieval torture
to
stretch me into the shape you see
I
bring with me someone lost to find
that's
a very normal thing in these parts
and
as for myself, for my own belongings
I
come as close as words
Magyar muggins.
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