My hair has grown long,
it crawls along
&
across
the frost filled cracks.
Smoke's rising in
my right eye and fills it.
White storm is the window.
No face .
DIARY: DECEMBER, 1944;
JANUARY- FEBRUARY, 1945.
father, hat on head, visiting the Farkasreti Cemeteries,
praying at jewish funerals,
father, submerged in the catalogues of the library
of the Benedictine Monastery, Tihany.
I've developed a silent blind rage at the sight of their
turning tanks.
Being bombed by the Strategic Air Force, RAF, Luftwaffe,
and by the Red Air Fleet, all in twentyfour hours
while riding a bus to Budapest
where at
fortyfour, father's sitting in front of a chicory box
pyramid, in his room,
reading the untergang des abendlandes
dressed in black,
deutschland, deutschland tiber alles,
still ringing out in the rhythm of shots
tracing soft-running figures on street deserted.
Everlasting non-existent documents.
I have missed the film
Munchausen
on account
of the heavy shelling,
roof is gone, windows are gone, flat on the floor
we are watching a triumphal entry
into the garden, up to the doorposts,
sulphur burns
&
strips my Andersen Marchen, they finally got
the neighbor's piano
