The Hungarian Uprising

I was not yet born when they toppled the statue of Stalin. In the street its detached head so large it could have been the boulder Sisyphus was doomed to push upward for eternity. However, on the thirtieth anniversary at the University of Munich I was handed a leaflet.

My poem:

A Leaflet (October 1986)
The quiet mourning
deep dark descent of grandeur.
Drowned elixir.
Three thousand dead as Budapest bleeds.

If I ever visit Budapest, I will certainly go to see Stalin’s Boots in Memento Park.