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.
© azure warrior
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