, , , , , , ,

Back in time

Through the window in time

I slipped

Back to the cobbled alleys of Pest

And walked back to the world

Rescued by Bela Hamvash

and the magic of Tokai vine

(I am) back to the rolling lowlands,

forest ridges and wheat fields

dithering in the wind

Back to lamenting of prairie poets –

lost sailors trapped in the corn fields –

who had lost not only their ships,

 but the entire sea.

(I am) back to the sounds of Chardash

By which Romani fiddler tames the dusk

a lonely tear scrolling

All the way down his cheek

Until it reaches the deadlock

At the tip of his pencil moustache

(I am ) back to the crispy tomatoes

Marinated while still green

Greener than the green of spring

Back to wooden gates with a horseshoe

nailed on  for luck and protection

(I am ) back to duvets

stuffed with goose feathers

 and big pillows sewn from damask silk,

back to nights  in which the feathers

stick out from  covers and pillows

pinch and tickle the sleeper’s bear skin

inducing them with lucid dreams

(I am ) back to the wooden chests

which guard starched linen and

Embroidered cloths,

Ironed carefully and folded so

that the edges form a straight line

enclosed by the scent

coming out of  tiny lavender pouches

 Back to the taste of cayenne pepper

Which circulates through goulashes

Passing memories of dearest things

That once were in the Old Country.