Edes Mama

First came she, then the wars, then the new generation.
All this while stunned by the swarming and surrounding guns of unwanted providence.
"We're all waiting for someone", they came unattended.
Gone is already far away, and her look lingers on, pointed towards the soldier's backs, towards the east where they were last seen.
The new generation is also of another time, but they seem to explain this through her aged presence. It is amusement that remains in their own look, or an innocent look at the other side of the bank, towards the reassuring hill of Buda, beauty that has always stood there unbeaten; unbeaten even by the fallen bridges of the war, by the burning nights of liberation.
I have been up there last summer, and it is beauty on a good day. Calm too as few hungarians seem to go up there. It's most surely too short a summary for their country, and the sight on Pest, although it's impressive, lingers onwards to the hungarian steps, where some tolkienesk marshes of souvenirs stay to rest.
The steps is only a necessity, it is place for the traveller, his train, the acid smells of smoking-wagons in the mist of forgetfulness, as our eyes travel through this museum of Cold.
When the long-sighted traveller rests upon the hill of Buda, he can turn his back on the steps, and rest his eyes upon the slowly and elegantly descending streets of the western part of the capital. And true silence is only there.