" Mother"

There,
on my wall
a black and white
photo
of you,
Mother,
at 15 or 16
taken during
the height of WWII.

In your life
the devastation
was not yet apparent-
still, it would come
in only a few
years.

Then,
you were
a petite beauty
with banana curls
an epitome of grace-
a teenage Scarlet O'Hara...
and your gown,
the Persian carpet
on which you stood-
these were the signs
of an era
soon ended.

In three years
the Soviets came
and our family's noble
distinctions
dissolved with the
past...
Even the family estate
- where the photo was taken;
that majestic house-
would crumble to 
ruin.

While today,
atop my bookshelf,
another picture-
of my parents' wedding,
this one's in color,
the year's '59.

And you, Mother
are shown in profile,
still beautiful-
hauntingly so...
for you've a weariness
that I, poet know-
it's the reflection of ghosts
of your Budapest's fall
there-
in your eyes.