Wings of Hungary–Something like Day 7

Wings of Hungary  

Sun-bounces off the silver-curved

clouds in the eye-ink of crow.

His claws unclench and fold,

and he glides. Swoop flutters

under the history of hoof-beats.


A ribbon of kings, armored in antlers

and animal skins, ride white horses.

With them, the hearts of their people

fly to the Carpathian caw, rising

over pine and oak.


Black roses unfurl banners. Knee-deep

in river, a bear, looks up from fish.

Sniffs men’s salt in the air. The Székely,

descents of Hun, welcome in peace

a nation of kings.


Sun-bounces off the silver-curved

clouds in the eye-ink of crow.

Swoop flutters under a succession

of new Kings, tanks and dictators.


But always the Székely men.

Knives carving their own way,

sleeping under the telehold

and stars, hearts beating

on black shoulders of dreams.


Always the Székely women.

Baking black bread, tending gulyás,

feeding men, children and chicks,

singing the Milky Way’s glide

over the  tree-feathered forest.


Always the pinion of nagymama

and baba, bride and young man—

the Székely.  Hearts true

as the language of furrows.

Patient as crows with silver beaks.


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