by Kalman Lis
And say that the mountain is unknown and far
and I am no more than a mischievous boy
that chases no goal but a far crawling sun
to capture the light from the golden dish,
that dances on fences and walls like a squirrel
and is only a step on a mirrored rim..
And believe me, Kalman the Jew is someone he hates.
Absurd? How come? That something called Kalman
should be the friend
of a mountain so proud of his Aryan root.
That to him should come someone so common, so plain
with a sack on his back, and a rope and a cane
to share the mountain eagles good luck…
But know that the mountain is not what once was.
The mountain looks down from on high at today
and sees the blood bath in the valley below
and ponders that there will yet come
there will yet come a time when humans will know
that only one thing is purer than pure
Not race and not root. –
Just the swing of free wings and kindled flame
that burns in blood with one powerful wish
to go and to come with mountain stride
where space flows together with time –
in the blue unending eternity.