Poem written 6-1-24.
The mountain wind, Bit into me, As we stood there, And spread the ashes My chant echoed, In the thin air, And I knew then, That I was alone No mother hid, Behind your laughter, Your callous talk, Of insurance No mother hid, Behind those eyes, That never once, Had truly seen me Wounded, I wondered, As we walked back to the car, Who would spread your ashes, And whether I would sing your name
Art: László Mednyánszky, “Prayer Over The Grave”, (1895)