Transitions

By John Horvath Jr.

Art by Alli Rowe


Between the guilt of Eden and the Holocaust my
People came out of Goshen and Gethsemene, and–
coming out–all of THAT was lost to me.
Yet, I still speak in rhythms of their day
A few remaining words from scattered East
And so there’s more that will not fade away:
Much as children recent out of Babylon, wary
Of a day when parents return, the unfamiliar
No longer at bay, the anger of the prophets, mercy
From a fool remain with me and mine forever; we
Are the Maker’s tool (His rasp) for rubbing out edges
That will not smooth. There’s rhyme here and where
There’s none, and every dream we dream is one.
 
My father’s from his mother;
From me to his granddaughter;
Every dream we dream is one.
 
Between the guilt of Eden and the Holocaust
my people out from Goshen and Gethsemene,
and–coming out–all of THAT was lost.
Yet I speak in rhythms of their day a few
Remaining words from the scattered East
And there’s more that will not fade away:
As children recent out of Babylon, fear the day
Their parents must return, unfamiliar manners
No longer held at bay, the anger of the prophets
And mercy from a fool remain with me;
We are the Maker’s tool (His rasp) for rubbing out
Edges that will not smooth. There’s rhyme here
And rhyme and rhythm where there seems none,
And every dream we dream is one.
 
My father’s from his mother, from me
to his granddaughter; Every dream we
Dream is one. Little changes.


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